Damnation and Hellfire
by Susan M. Garrett
Summary: Who should profit a man if by becoming a member of The Hellfire Club, he should lose his soul?
1. Chapter 1

TITLE: Damnation and Hellfire 

AUTHOR: Susan M. Garrett 

CATEGORY: Drama, adventure. 

RATING/WARNINGS: PG 

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Damnation and Hellfire - Chapter One 

The door to Fogg's residence on Saville Row was opened almost before Jules Verne could knock. He was forced back a step as Passepartout barely gave him a wan smile of greeting before leaning out the doorway and glancing nervously up and down the early evening street. 

"Passepartout, what's this all--?" 

"Come in, Master Jules, come in quickly. Miss Rebecca will be telling you." Catching hold of Jules' shoulder, he drew him into the foyer of the townhouse and deftly removed the leather jacket from him. 

"Is everything all right? I came as fast as I could." Jules reached into his coat pocket and withdrew the telegram, tapping it against the palm of his hand. "Is it Rebecca?" 

"It is _not_ Rebecca," said the lady in question, as she descended the stairway, skirts of her green gown in hand. She paused at the turn in the landing to smile down at him. "But thank you for your concern. You received my wire?" 

Jules stared at the three words on the paper - 'Come. Saville. Now.' "This isn't much of a message." 

"I'm sorry there wasn't time for anything more." Reaching the bottom of the stairway, Rebecca touched the shoulder of his coat in an affectionate gesture. "Thank you for coming so quickly." She nodded toward Passepartout, then proceeded into the parlor. "I think you must've broken a number of land-speed records in getting here." 

"I caught the last night train to the coast and the first boat over, as soon as I saw this. What's the problem?" Jules followed her into the parlor and glanced around, but could see nothing amiss. The gas lamp had been turned up and the fireplace had been stoked with a small, but cheerful blaze to counteract the chill winter wind outside. There was no sign of mayhem; not even the placement of the furniture had changed since his last visit. He'd come all the way from Paris with no food and no sleep, for this? "There _is_ a problem, isn't there?" 

He turned toward Rebecca and immediately regretted the petulance in his tone. Having appropriated a straight-backed chair, she was arranging her skirts, for a moment permitting him only a glimpse of her profile by firelight. There were signs of worry in her face, of sleepless nights - certainly more than one. 

"What's happened to Fogg?" he asked softly, drawing the only conclusion possible from the facts at hand. 

"I'm not entirely certain that anything _has_." Rebecca finally looked up at him, a wry smile on his lips. "Oh, don't look so terribly dire, Jules - it's not as if he's been kidnapped or anything. In fact, we expect him to return shortly." 

She glanced past him, over his shoulder and he turned to see Passepartout standing just inside the study door. "I will be keepings watch," the valet told her, then slipped silently out into the foyer. 

Jules picked up a footstool and seated himself near her, in front of the fire. "Is Fogg ill?" 

"I'm not entirely sure." Her smile gained a bitter edge to it, indicating her embarrassment at the admission. "He's been behaving . . . oddly since I returned from - well, that's neither here nor there. But that's been over a week now and Passepartout informs me that it started several days before my return." 

Shaking his head in confusion, Jules asked, "What started? Behaving 'oddly' - how?" He looked up again, around the room, and caught sight of the decanter. "He's been drinking, more than usual?" 

Rebecca hesitated a moment. "I believe so. He shows signs of it, although he's not been drinking overly much here. I've been watching the decanter and Passepartout has been keeping me advised." 

"Then at his club?" 

"He's been out every night - quite late - and has been sleeping in most mornings. He hasn't been to his broker for days and he's only stopped by the bank to withdraw funds. Even his man of affairs is baffled." She clasped her hands together in her lap, then looked at him from lowered lids. "Phileas seems to have changed his schedule." 

Had she told him that Queen Victoria had eloped with an Indian Pasha, Jules could not have been more surprised. Fogg never deviated from his 'schedule' unless absolutely necessary. Or, rather the plural, in that there seemed to be a specific schedule for life at Shillingworth Magna, another for the London townhouse, and yet a third, certainly more malleable, for life aboard the Aurora. Situations threatening life, limb, and national security seemed understandably exempt from such regulation, but Jules had also noted that if there was the faintest possibility of tea and coffee being served at four o'clock, or the Times being ironed, trimmed, and ready for presentation by ten-fifteen, Fogg would expect his schedule to be maintained. 

"In fact," she added, after giving him sufficient time to digest that earth-shattering bit of information, "I suspect Phileas has changed clubs." 

His mouth hung open for a moment, then Jules remembered to close it, at least long enough to swallow. Although Fogg seemed to have retained membership in the most exclusive gentlemen's clubs in every fashionable city in the world, the Reform Club was his home away from Saville Row, at least when in London. Jules had met him there twice for supper - once having been denied entry due to some lack in his attire, which he had yet to understand - and had been amazed at the number of recognizable names and faces among the membership. Fogg had informed him, with no small amount of pride, that even peers of the realm had been denied entrance to that hallowed ground. 

"You must be mistaken," said Jules, after a moment's hesitation. "Have you been to the club? Spoken to any of his friends there?" 

Rebecca's raise of an eyebrow and pursing of her lips made him realize just how foolish his words were. Glancing away, he grinned at his own naiveté. "No women allowed." 

"Precisely. And though Passepartout could certainly gain entrée under that condition, there are other issues . . . ." 

"Because he's a valet?" asked Jules bristling slightly. 

"Much as I've learned to appreciate your egalitarian views in an academic sense, it would very much help, Jules, if you could restrict your focus to our current dilemma?" 

"Sorry," he muttered, reminding himself to attempt that topic of conversation at another opportunity. Glancing up at her, he asked, "But I'm not a member - would they even let me in?" 

"Not dressed like that," she noted, not unkindly, as he glanced down at his coat and waistcoat in confusion. "You only need to get as far as the porter - he'll recognize you. You can make a polite inquiry of Phileas. They know you're from Paris. It can be very casual, that you stopped on your way to Saville Row, thought you might catch him at his club--?" 

"And if I can find out how long it's been since he's visited there?" 

"So much the better. Although nothing too elaborate," warned Rebecca, shaking a finger at him. 

Jules grinned. "I'm a writer. Intricate plots are _not_ a problem." 

"They are when you get tangled up in them." Sighing, she kicked at the bottom hem of her dress in a very unlady-like fashion that he found most endearing. "That is, of course, our secondary plan of action." 

He stared at her, puzzled. "It is?" 

"Yes." Rebecca shook her head at him, a faint, fond smile on her lips. "Oh, _do_ keep up, Jules. Our first course of action is to have Phileas invite you to his new club. You know how he is with any new acquisition - he loves to show off - and he certainly can't ask either Passepartout or myself. You're the only suitable candidate." 

Her pronouncement was hardly flattering, even if it was accurate. Jules shrugged at her assessment and found himself glancing over at the decanter again. There was something about the entire matter that made him uneasy. Rebecca was usually so direct when it came to these sorts of things - he'd seen her confront her cousin on several occasions about a variety of matters. She'd not been successful in every circumstance, but more often than not. It just seemed wrong to be questioning Fogg's personal affairs without anything substantial to . . . . 

Affair. 

The word stopped him cold and it took an effort of will not to look at Rebecca. Jules licked his lips and raised his eyes to the fire instead, wondering how he could broach such an indelicate subject. 

"Perhaps you can ask someone who's spent time with him recently. Are there any other friends? Anyone new he might have met? Anyone he's become reacquainted with?" 

He dared a glance at her, wondering if he'd treaded the line as carefully as he'd intended. Rebecca was watching him with a steady gaze that he would have desired under any other circumstance, but at the moment found not only disheartening, but completely unnerving. "Phileas has few 'friends,'" she answered, her tone even, pronunciation precise, "although his list of social acquaintances is extensive. And if you're asking if there could be a new woman in his life--" she raised a finger to forestall his objection, "--I don't believe there is. Not _a_ woman. I would have seen the signs." 

His cheeks burning, Jules looked back at the fire again and pursed his lips. He'd walked directly into the line of fire on that one and now there was no way to pursue the matter without having to delicately suggest to Rebecca that she might be mistaken - there are so many ways of not seeing what one didn't want to see. 

"Phileas is a grown man," she said softly, as if reading his mind. "I have no delusions about that." 

Jules sighed. "Rebecca, I'm sorry. I didn't mean--" He stopped and then glanced up at her. "But it's a possibility. Considering that he's been spending money, the odd hours, not saying anything about where he's been?" 

Her smile was forgiving, but there was a touch of sadness to it. "I know. It was the first thing I'd considered. If it was an affaire de coeur," she shrugged, "those pass quickly enough." 

"But if it were something more serious?" 

He wanted to take back the words as soon as he'd said them, spotting a sudden flash of panic in her eyes that she tried to hide with a wave of her hand. "He would have said something, or done something to betray himself by now." 

The sound of loud conversation in the hall outside startled him. Jules sat up suddenly, half-turned toward the door, but looked back at Rebecca when she placed a hand on his arm. 

She touched a finger to her lips as if to ask him for silence. "You didn't receive a telegram," she said softly. "You're visiting on your own initiative." 

He nodded his acceptance and she released his arm just as the door opened. Fogg was removing his gloves by tugging them from his fingers, casually tossing each over his shoulder as he moved forward - leaving Passepartout to trail behind him and catch them in the up-turned top hat he was holding, Fogg's walking stick tucked beneath his chin. 

Jules rose, but Fogg passed right by him, smiling broadly at his cousin. "Hall-llo, Rebecca. It's so very nice to find you here." He planted a quick, if slightly inaccurate kiss on her cheek, his hand resting on her shoulder for a second as if steadying himself. "I hope your day was uneventful." 

"As uneventful as can be expected," she replied, casting Jules a sharp glance, one eyebrow raised as if to caution him to miss nothing. "Although we have had a visitor--" 

"Have we?" Fogg paused as if amazed, then turned toward Jules and took his hand, shaking it with both of his own quite strenuously. "Verne! This is a surprise, a most _welcome_ surprise. I _do_ trust this is a social call?" 

"More or less." Jules retrieved his hand from Fogg's grip with some effort and then tucked it behind his back to surreptitiously stretch out his crushed fingers. "Passepartout and I had been discussing an adjustment to the navigational system aboard the Aurora - I had some new ideas and thought we might try them out." 

"We have?" Passepartout dropped the cane in surprise, but caught the length of it on an upraised knee. He balanced the stick while standing on one leg, his hands still holding each side of the brim of the top hat, and stared in confusion . . . until Jules shot him a sharp look. "Oh, yes, masters, we have. I am having great interests in Master Jules' ideas." The valet popped his knee up again, shifted the hat to his other hand, and caught the walking stick with his right hand. 

Fogg seemed not to notice the acrobatics, turning to Jules again. "Have you? Splendid! Splendid!" He glanced around, spotted the decanter on the desk behind him, and walked toward it. "Can I interest you in a drink, Verne? Rebecca?" 

"No thank you, Phileas," said Rebecca quickly, cutting off Jules before he could answer. "And I hardly think Jules should drink on an empty stomach - he's just arrived and probably hasn't had a thing to eat all day." 

"Haven't you?" asked Fogg. Replacing the stopper in the decanter without pouring, he removed his watch from his waistcoat and consulted it briefly. "Well, you're just in time for supper, then." He adjusted his position to look at his valet. "Can you accommodate Verne in your preparations, Passepartout?" 

"Oh, yes, master. There is being sufficient mutton." 

"Capital." Fogg proceeded to remove the stopper from the decanter again and poured the alcohol into a nearby tumbler. "I hope you don't think me rude, Verne, if I beg off supper, but I have a previous engagement. Had just stopped in to change, as a matter of fact." Fogg raised the glass to his lips, downed half of it in a single swallow, and then used it to gesture toward his cousin. "I'm sure Rebecca can keep you entertained. And if there's anything, _anything_ you need--" Fogg swiveled, adding Passepartout to the gesture. 

"Thank you, Fogg," said Jules, taking a step forward. "But I _was_ hoping for an invitation to your club tonight. There was something I wanted to discuss - I thought we might do it over dinner?" 

"Did you?" Fogg swallowed the rest of his drink. Abandoning the glass, he stepped forward to grasp Jules' shoulder, pulling him close as if to favor him with a confidence. "I can think of nothing I'd enjoy more," he explained, then added with a casual wave, "but this prior engagement. Can't be helped, I'm afraid. Another time, definitely another time." Straightening with a smile of promise, he sobered for a moment and tested the weave of the fabric of Jules' jacket between his thumb and forefinger. "But not in these clothes, certainly. We must see about getting you some new togs, Verne." Tapping Jules on the shoulder, he headed out the door, saying, "You _will_ excuse me. Passepartout?" 

Eyes wide, Passepartout gave them a shrug, placed the top hat on his own head, and followed Fogg from the room. "Yes, master?" 

Jules immediately wiped his closed eyelids with his fingertips, barely cognizant of the fact that Rebecca had risen to her feet and was standing beside him - the rustle of her skirts gave her away. "Your impressions?" 

"Was he drunk as an owl, you mean?" Jules tried to open his eyes and was forced to wipe the left one again. "He could have been. He's certainly had more than that one glass - brandy, I think - my eyes are still watering from his breath." 

"Steady on," said Rebecca, patting his shoulder. "Have a drink yourself, if need be. When Passepartout returns, he can find you something to nibble on from the pantry." Jules glanced up in surprise as she walked past him, before she paused at the door and looked out into the foyer. "I suppose I should take this opportunity to change, as well." 

"There's no need to change for supper on my account--" When she glanced back at him, a solemn expression on her face, Jules bit his lip. "We're going to follow him, aren't we?" 

"I don't see any other course of action open to us, do you?" 

"Yes, I do." Taking a breath to steady himself, Jules walked over to her and tugged her arm gently, but enough to draw her back into the room. He closed the door behind her and leaned against it. "We do nothing." 

Her eyes widened slightly, that eyebrow arching again. "We?" 

Jules touched his right fist to his mouth a moment and took a step backward even as Rebecca stepped toward him. "Before you throw me across the room, just hear me out, please?" He took her momentary hesitation as a good sign and continued, "You have no proof there's anything wrong. Maybe Fogg's been drinking more heavily than usual, he's been out later . . . but there's nothing sinister about any of that." 

Rebecca met his gaze evenly. "There's something more to it. He's hiding something - I know it." 

"Doesn't he have a right to do that? You said it yourself, Rebecca, he's a grown man." It was only when her eyes darkened and her lips tightened into a frown that he added, "Aren't there things you'd rather Fogg not know?" 

She turned away and Jules took another step backward, not wanting her to feel trapped between him and the foyer door. "There are times, Jules, when I find myself questioning your aversion to a career in the law." Rebecca's gaze was fixed on the floor at her feet. "You saw what Phileas was like after Saratoga Browne's death. You were in the train car. You agreed that we had to sell his guns before he hurt himself, or someone else." She looked back at him. "It wasn't the first time something like that has happened and I'm afraid it won't be the last. Phileas has a right to his privacy and his secrets, but not if they'll put him in his grave. I don't _want_ to pry; I want to know that he'll be all right, that this isn't simply another version of the same thing he's tried before." 

She had a strong argument on her side - he'd seen Fogg in that self-destructive state and knew what it had taken to drag his friend back from the brink. And yet . . . . 

"What if we follow him and everything's all right, but you still don't like what you find?" asked Jules. "What then?" 

"Then I close my eyes and walk away." Rebecca's smile was almost frighteningly brittle. "You think _that_ hasn't happened before, as well?" 

Jules had no answer to give her; no apology seemed sufficient for not realizing what previous heartache of a similar nature she might have suffered. But Rebecca took pity on him, nodding slightly as if accepting the emotion that rested in his eyes as sufficient recompense. "I'd endure it a hundred thousand times if it meant never experiencing the alternative, losing him that way." 

There was sound on the stairs outside. Jules looked up, deciding that it sounded like Passepartout returning. "You'd better get changed, he'll be ready to leave soon." 

"You think so?" Her sober expression was replaced by a disbelieving grin. "If the word 'fastidious' hadn't existed, it would have to have been invented solely for Phileas." She waited until he answered with a smile, then lowered her gaze slightly. "You are coming with me tonight, aren't you?" 

"Of course!" 

"Good." Her smile seemed a bit warmer, now that she'd reassured herself of his support. "Then _do_ get Passepartout to fetch you something from the pantry." She reached across to tap him on the stomach. "Empty bellies tend to rumble and that's very inconvenient when you're trying to sneak up on someone." 

"Yes, Rebecca." 

She rolled her eyes at his fatalistic tone, then opened the door and slipped out into the foyer. The stairs were empty, Passepartout having gone into the kitchen to check on his mutton, no doubt. 

Jules folded his arms and leaned against the parlor doorjamb, watching her. It never ceased to amaze him how she could move so quietly when the need arose, particularly with the rustling crinolines beneath her skirts. That thought made his cheeks flush and he turned back into the parlor before she could catch a glimpse of him from the landing. She'd just spent the past five minutes convincing him that her concern for Fogg's activities was more than justified and here he was thinking about the rustling of her crinoline underskirts? 

He was certain that when he died, he was going to hell. 

**** 

End of Part 1 

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	2. Chapter 2

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Damnation and Hellfire - Chapter Two 

The white waistcoat was pressed and fitted to perfection, the gray stripe down the side of his trousers was perfectly aligned, and the black tailcoat showed not a spec of lint. 

As if not entirely trusting the magnificence of the attire reflected in the mirror, Phileas frowned and turned to his valet. "This flower seems a bit weak." He touched the drooping white petals gently with the tip of his finger, but it _would_ list to one side of his coat lapel. 

He was proud of Passepartout at a moment like this. A lapel bloom was after all an insignificant issue, and his man had been on multiple trips up and down the staircase during the last fifteen minutes. Any other valet would have balked, but not Passepartout. He stepped forward smartly and examined the problem in question, showing no sign of weariness as he whisked away Phileas' hand and reached for the bloom. "Pfft, pfft, pfft!" 

Phileas watched the petals roll back into place at a touch from Passepartout. "Well done. Not much choice from the hothouse, I assume?" 

"No, master. Is being the early frost and having been taking too many chances, leaving the poor posses out late." 

"Yes. Well, one must learn to make do. One doesn't have to like it," he dipped his head to check the scent of the flower and found it almost completely odorless, "but one _does_ learn." He lifted his chin as Passepartout made a minute adjustment to the tie at his neck. "I wanted to commend you, Passepartout, on having suited your supper preparations to Verne's unanticipated arrival. I really must have a talk with him about giving us adequate warning." 

The trap was baited and set. He watched his valet hesitate, then return to fixing the cravat. "It is not so much being his fault. Master Jules is so excitable about such things; they must be done right away before they become forgetfulnesses. Is part of him being a genius." 

"Genius is no excuse for poor manners," said Phileas sternly. He took a step back even as Passepartout reached for the tie again. "No, thank you, Passepartout, I think that's done it. Perhaps I'll have a word with Verne on the way. I'm not at all happy about him putting you out in this manner. A cable would have been sufficient--" 

"Is not being so easy to send cables when there is not money to be paying for them." 

"True." Relenting at the very least for his valet's sake, Phileas nodded. "Though it would be an entirely different matter if we'd sent a cable to him. Which, of course, we didn't." 

"No, master." 

He kept his eyes on the mirror and saw Passepartout glance quickly away - so Verne _had_ been sent a telegram asking him to come. Not by Passepartout, surely. Rebecca would be the obvious culprit. 

It was gratifying to find that he had been so successful in his subterfuge. Perhaps too successful, though, if it meant they might interfere tonight. If Rebecca could be content to wait only one more evening . . . . 

"Something is wrong, master?" 

Phileas reconsidered the course of action he'd chosen. It was his own fault, after all; to drag them into it would be blatantly unfair, not to mention dangerous. They _would_ try to stop him. For some reason they seemed to think they had his best interests at heart. 

Touching the flower in his lapel again was sufficient cover for his hesitation in answering. "Can't be helped, not at this late hour," he said beneath his breath, and let Passepartout make of that what he would. He turned and headed for the door to the hall. "Perhaps another drink before I go? Do hail a cab for me, Passepartout." 

"Yes, master." 

There was nothing inelegant about the way Passepartout slipped around him and scurried down the stairs to accomplish the task he'd been set. Phileas half-suspected that when no one was about, Passepartout slid down the banisters just to save time - he hadn't been beyond that himself during his own boyhood at Shillingworth Magna. There had been merry hell to pay if father caught him or Erasmus in mid-flight. Not that Rebecca had been immune from the temptation - she'd turned the final dismount into a contest of acrobatic skill before she'd grown too old to do so gracefully. It was just that she'd never been unlucky enough to get _caught_ at it. 

He'd paused in reminiscence at the mid-stair landing and realized there was someone standing just inside the drawing room door. Phileas felt his heart stop for an instant, his breath catching in his throat. 

_"If it's not convenient, Uncle Phileas--?"_

_ "Of course it's convenient. And I should think 'uncle' is superfluous, now that you've finished university." A quick flush of red in the young man's cheeks, not embarrassment at the honor but at something else, enough to cause him to ask, "What's wrong?"_

_ "My father - I don't know how to tell him--" _

One step, then two more down, still staring at the figure in the drawing room, the gas lamps having been turned low, leaving only the firelight to see who. . . . 

Oh, Verne . . . of course. 

Not-- 

His heart started in his chest and Phileas exhaled loudly enough for Verne to hear the sound and turn toward him. "Fogg - I want to apologize. I--" He stopped, taking a breath himself. "Are you all right? You look like you've seen a ghost." 

How hard it was to force the smile, particularly when faced with those words! But Phileas did so, remembering the part he'd chosen to play, letting the smile be a little too broad, allowed his stride to assume a bit more swagger than normal as he sped down the last few steps. "Sorry, Verne - no, just had a dreadful thought. Not certain I reminded Passepartout about replenishing the brandy stores aboard the Aurora." 

He'd hoped to encounter Passepartout on his return from securing a cab - where the devil had the man gone, Brighton? At least the proper gloves and hat were waiting for him, along with his cane. His coat was probably here somewhere . . . . 

"Fogg, about the club - it was rude of me to suggest--" 

"Perish the thought," Phileas countered. He turned, looked - no coat, not even thrown over a chair. "If you plan on staying through tomorrow, it should be over by then. I'll be free to--" 

"_What_ will be over by then?" 

Damn. 

A dozen different answers, a dozen different evasions, a dozen different lies . . . and not a one of them would be enough to throw Verne off his trail, not after that slip. 

He was getting too old for this. Or, rather, he was getting too close to them - far easier to lie to strangers. Yet he would never have made such a slip to Rebecca; he'd learned long ago to set his guard against her. With Passepartout, he could have thrown down the gauntlet of class distinction and nothing more would have been said of the matter. But Verne was another situation entirely - that friendship hadn't yet produced clear and well-defined boundaries, proper defenses and offenses hadn't fallen into place. He knew instantly that he needed a weapon to anger, one that would dissuade and hurt but not wound too deeply. 

Phileas raised his arm to Verne's shoulder and straightened it, locking the elbow and pushing the younger man's back against the doorjamb. "Look, you insolent pup - I've nothing against you scratching at my door looking for a free meal now and again, but at the very least, could you attempt some manners while doing it?" 

Startled, and perhaps a little frightened at the unexpected, physical force, Verne stared at him for a moment with wide eyes. A flash of anger in his gaze followed the humiliation, which had brought color to his face. He raised both hands to shift Phileas' grip from his shoulder, but Phileas merely pressed harder, pinning him to the woodwork like an insect on a mounting board. 

"Let go--!" 

"As I said, eat your supper, go to bed, and if you're very good, perhaps I'll take you to the Reform Club _tomorrow_ night. Until then--" The moment Phileas dropped his hold, Verne moved to the right in an attempt to keep from getting pinned again. Good, he was learning. "--Content yourself with the toys in the nursery. If you stay out of the adults' way, you won't get hurt." 

Half-suspecting that Verne might launch himself at him, Phileas turned his back warily on the writer and picked up his hat and gloves, then his stick. The front door opened and Passepartout stood in the center of the doorframe, breathing heavily as if he'd run several hundred yards or more in a few seconds' time. A blast of frigid air blew past him and into the house. "Your cab is awaiting, mast--" 

Phileas wasn't about to give him a chance to assess the situation. Spotting his coat folded over Passepartout's arm, he snatched it up and brushed aside the valet, with a terse, "Thank you, Passepartout. No need to leave the lamps - I'll be quite late tonight, if I return at all." 

Long legs were a blessing when it came to crossing distances quickly. Phileas was up the steps and into the cab before Passepartout had even given a thought to following. Still holding his accessories loosely in his hands, he kept his gaze straight ahead as he slammed the cab door and the horses started off. The clip-clop of the hooves would have drowned out any noise from behind him, although he didn't really expect any rousing complaint. Only when he was beyond sight of his townhouse did he take a breath, set his hat and cane upon the seat, and begin to struggle into his greatcoat before putting on his gloves. A destination for the driver could wait until he was properly attired and then there was the choice to make - a direct route, or something more indirect to discourage pursuit? 

It was the absolutely perfect way to begin an evening that, in the best of circumstances, promised to be nothing short of a nightmare. 

**** 

End of Part 2 

**** 


	3. Chapter 3

**** 

Damnation and Hellfire - Chapter Three - Part One 

Not having remembered to take his own jacket outside with him had been a mistake Passepartout would have readily admitted - he'd found the first cab easily enough but the second, to follow upon Miss Rebecca's orders, was a more difficult task. It was cold with a biting wind, the overcast night sky holding the threat of sleet, but it never occurred to him to slip his master's coat over his own shoulders, even for a moment's respite from the bite of the wind. Only after the second cab had been secured did he open the front door again, well looking forward to the warmth and shelter it promised. But he was excited and it was hard to keep his face straight. He'd known the second cab driver! Several times the man had brought Master Fogg home in recent nights past. 

His master had all but torn the greatcoat from his arm and passed outside into the darkness with the most casual of thanks, greetings, and information - more hurried than other nights. About to follow, Passepartout had glanced back and seen Jules. 

The man was wearing the face of someone that had been shot and was just becoming aware that an injury had occurred. His jaw was clenched in anger and the high color in his cheeks indicated that the injury was not so much to the body, but to the pride. Had words been exchanged, between Master Fogg and Jules? 

As it was his master's matter he should not have even thought of it, but Jules was a friend . . . those were different rules. Jules stood beside him at the door to watch Fogg's cab head to destinations unknown. "Master Fogg is not being himself," Passepartout said quietly. "He is not knowing what he's saying." 

"Fogg knows," countered Jules, the anger in his voice and too, some hurt? "He just doesn't care." 

A half-second pause was all Passepartout allowed himself, but there was no more from Jules. He caught his friend's shoulder and pointed him toward his jacket, which had been left conveniently to hand - the valet had foreseen a flight from the house like this. Against protocol and all good manners but within the bounds of emergency, he ran to the steps and shouted, "Miss Rebecca, we must be leaving _now_!" 

He turned toward Jules, who seemed to have shaken off the glassy-eyed stare of anger, and pointed him toward the door. "To the cab, please?" 

To be rewarded with a nod from Jules, as well as with his immediate obedience, was something at which Passepartout could only smile - to have friends such as these was a rare thing indeed, to be appreciated in stolen minutes at every opportunity. But to steal even seconds now was a criminal enterprise worthy of the League of Darkness. 

"Miss Rebecca?!" he called again, standing just below the banister at mid-stair landing. 

"Yes, Passepartout, I _am_ coming!" She appeared in the upper hall with her hair braided and pinned to one side, her dark brown silk overdress merely a shell for what Passepartout knew must lay underneath - her leather 'working' clothes. "Jules?" 

"Is making the cab-man driver to be waiting." Passepartout recovered her hooded cloak, which he'd left with Jules' coat just out of his master's sight, and was waiting for her at the base of the steps. He placed the cloak around her as she moved toward the door. "This driver we have - I am recognizing him; he has been taking Master Fogg away many times these last nights. He will take us to the place." 

"And if Phileas has gone elsewhere tonight?" 

Miss Rebecca turned to him as she asked her question, but there was no accusation in her tone, nor in her eyes. She was asking if he had thought of any way to compensate for Phileas changing plans suddenly. 

Passepartout shrugged to show her that he hadn't, a regretful half-nod was enough to indicate that he'd done all that he could. 

Her lips tightened as he grabbed his own coat and hat and held the door open for her. "Well done, Passepartout. We've only to hope Phileas stays the course then, don't we?" 

The door closed, Passepartout locking it with the great brass key on his ring. He was forced to grab his hat against the wind, holding it to his head as he dashed to the cab. Miss Rebecca had not waited for him, but Jules had been there to help her with her skirts. By the time he reached them, Miss Rebecca was settled on the seat facing forward, Jules opposite her. Passepartout flung himself into the cab, closed the door, and then tapped on the outer roof to signal the driver to proceed to the place. 

"Put on your coat, Passepartout," said Miss Rebecca, pulling on her brown calfskin gloves. "You'll catch your death." 

"Yes, Miss Rebecca." He took the moment to slip his arms into the sleeves of his coat, Jules helping him. 

"Where are we going?" asked Jules. "We've lost him by now--" 

"The driver is being the same one taking Master Fogg away several nights past - he will be finding the place," explained Passepartout. "Master Fogg has been leaving too quickly tonight - not like he has been leaving other nights." 

He glanced across to meet Miss Rebecca's gaze and she nodded. "We should have had another ten to fifteen minutes," she complained, wrapping her cloak more tightly around her. "What changed tonight?" 

Passepartout held out his hand and ticked off his fingers as he went through Master Fogg's activities. "He come home. He have drink. He get undressed. He get dressed. He have drink. He lea--" 

"He didn't have a drink before he left." Jules looked out the window of the cab. "When Fogg came downstairs, he looked . . . not frightened. Maybe surprised at something? I think I startled him." He shook his head, his gaze going to Miss Rebecca. "He wasn't drunk, Rebecca. He wouldn't have looked like that - so rattled - if he'd been drunk." 

"It _was_ an act, then?" she wondered aloud, and touched a gloved finger to her cheek. "For what purpose?" 

Passepartout kept his eyes open and his mouth shut, knowing that there must have been more said and done between Jules and Master Fogg in those few minutes than his friend was admitting. If it were something to be known now, Jules would say. And if it were something not to be known now, Passepartout would wait for Jules to say later. 

Miss Rebecca was still thinking aloud. "Rattled? Phileas doesn't rattle well - never has. Passepartout, you've said there were no unusual callers while I was gone, nothing in the papers that piqued Phileas' interest?" 

Closing his eyes, Passepartout thought back, again covering the ground Miss Rebecca had asked him to recall. "A ship docking in Boston, was good news. Railroad up, cows down, pigs flying--" 

"Pigs flying?" asked Jules, startled out of his own thoughts. 

"Yes." Passepartout cast a cautious glance at Miss Rebecca. "Master Fogg says Lady Esham's daughter will marry when pigs flying." 

Miss Rebecca gave a slight laugh, turning her glance away for a moment. "Yes - I remember seeing that engagement announcement myself. Phileas was quite wrong on that one; there's certainly pork in the treetops. But even if he'd held a wager on the matter, losing wouldn't have set off a reaction this severe." She shook her head. "No real visitors, you'd said?" 

"The Italian count, they play cards. The Belgian ambassador, they throw dice. The Duke of Mount Morecy, they talk and drink and play cards, and throw dice." Passepartout sighed, giving Rebecca an apologetic glance. "Is nobody not known. Oh and Mr. Denby." 

"Denby?" Rebecca sat upright, smiling faintly. "Yes, Lord Denby's son - Arthur. He'd have just finished university - Phileas was expecting him to drop by." She nodded toward Jules. "About your age, a few years older perhaps. His father and Phileas were fast friends at university - Phileas is his godfather. I'm sorry I missed him - he's a charming boy." She turned an inquiring gaze on Passepartout. "How is young Arthur?" 

"He was being handsome man, strong but very pale. Too many books, not enough real air," decided Passepartout, shaking his finger toward Jules to ward him off that danger. "I get tea, but he leaves - Master Fogg sees him to the door. And then Master Fogg, he go out, but is time to make calls--" Passepartout shrugged. "Is nothing likely in any of my remembrances." 

Jules had made faces when Miss Rebecca had spoken - not rude, but wincing when she said Mr. Denby was a few years older than he and then called him a boy. Passepartout guessed he settled his gaze out the window of the cab to hide the frown tugging at his lips. "Where are we?" 

"Hmn?" Miss Rebecca looked out the window on the other side. "Regent's Park, I should think. This is Park Road, and we're just north of Hanover Place. Odd - I don't know of any men's clubs in this area. Some of the manors are quite large, though." She touched a finger to the side of her nose with a grin and glanced over at Jules, who was now listening to her. " old money." 

Jules grinned back, although Passepartout wasn't surprised - the writer could never stay angry long with Miss Rebecca. It was then the cab jolted to a stop, the springs creaking in dismay. "Are we here?" asked Jules. 

"I was telling the driver to leave us distance to be walking ourselves." Passepartout opened the door and scrambled out of the cab. Jules followed quickly and turned to offer assistance to Miss Rebecca, so Passepartout walked to where the driver was seated. He held the half crown in the air where the coin could catch the light, but far enough out of the driver's reach for it to be safe for a moment longer. "Where is it that you have been taking Master Fogg?" he asked. 

The driver's eyes were fixed on the coin, but he looked up enough to gesture down the street. "Alpha Road," he barked. "Can't miss it - big stone fence round the propity. I've been picking up all top trade there, but late at night. I show up around two or three o'clock right regular to snag 'em. Picked up your man at the gates more times than not last week, and at least one of 'em just before sunrise." He nodded to the side of the street, where Jules was assisting Rebecca from the carriage. "If that's his lady, he's a damned fool to be out on a night like this, instead of home in bed with summat like that to keep 'im warm." 

There was little point in correcting the man. Passepartout tossed the coin into the air and the driver caught it. He'd barely moved back from the cab before the driver flicked the reins and the horses jolted forward, the springs of the coach body groaning as the vehicle again rattled into motion. The sight of it lumbering away seemed to freeze them in place for a moment, but the chill wind set them moving again. Jules took up a position to Miss Rebecca's left and Passepartout to the rear, as if in accord in attempting to shield her from the wind. 

They kept away from the street gas lamps, remaining in the darkness of shadows, which offered little cover from the elements. There were no townhouses here, but larger dwellings set apart from one another on small bits of property. Miss Rebecca had been right - the means of these people could be seen in the carriage houses, small stables, and serving quarters set just back from the road. Most of the front windows of the houses were dark with only dim lights visible in the higher, distant windows - a valet preparing his master's attire for the next day, a seamstress finishing a last bit of repair work, or a housemaid banking the fires. So much work to be done, in those great houses. 

It wasn't difficult to discover the building to which the driver had sent them - the wall around it was at least the height of a man, not brick but large stones cut from a quarry and mortared into place with little thought for rough edges. They paused in the shadow of the outer wall. Sounds drifted toward them on the wind; the iron gates were opened as cabs were challenged, occupants identified and then allowed to enter, the gates closing again with an ominous 'clang.' 

"Did you hear someone say 'club'?" asked Miss Rebecca, placing her ear to the uneven stone of the wall as if she might better discern the words. 

Passepartout shook his head, indicating a negative. But Verne was assenting. "Yes - I did. The gate porter said, 'Welcome to the club, m'lord.'" 

Miss Rebecca glanced at Passepartout, as if verifying whether he thought this possible or if it might be wishful thinking. "If it is being a club, Miss Rebecca, and a men's club, you are being out of place." 

"Not if it's the type of men's club I suspect it to be," she said softly. "Although why Phileas would want to hide his membership from me is a puzzle - he's usually delicately forthright about such things." 

"He said it would be over by tomorrow." 

Jules' pronouncement stunned them both. They turned to find him tucking his hands beneath his armpits for warmth and each fixed a glare on him. 

"Master Fogg is saying this before he is leaving tonight?" asked Passepartout. 

Nodding slightly, wind blowing through his hair, Jules looked miserably cold - or perhaps his feelings had less to do with the temperature than with something else? 

"You _were_ going to tell us this?" chided Rebecca sharply. 

The look of misery deepened and the writer turned his gaze away. "That's all he said, that it would be over by tomorrow." 

Passepartout caught Jules' shoulder and dragged him closer to the wall - he must remember tomorrow to find a pair of winter gloves that Master Fogg had discarded, or a used pair from the rag shop could be purchased from house money. Then he looked at Miss Rebecca, awaiting her decision. 

To know that this was a different kind of club was not such an odd thing - expected, in its own way. To know that it was guarded with a heavy, iron gate and a wall meant more. And to have Master Fogg tell Jules that it would be over by tomorrow . . . he could not help but think of the meeting with Cavois. Gentlemen did odd things, dangerous things, and Master Fogg sought out danger more than most of his kind. 

Miss Rebecca was watching him, studying him, as if in her mind were the same thoughts. He saw the edges of her lips go flat, only a hint of line in the shadows. "Right - we go in, we look around, we find Phileas. If there's nothing to it, we meet back at our entry point in an hour and we leave." 

"And if something's wrong?" asked Jules, looking slightly less miserable with action in the offing. 

"We shall do what we must." 

**** 

Continued - 

**** 


	4. Chapter 4

**** 

Damnation and Hellfire - Chapter Three - Part Two 

It was not the most specific plan of attack Passepartout had ever heard from her lips, but it was a beginning. He lifted his hand, pointing along the wall and into the depths of the property. "There is being a kitchen entrance at the back. Never guarded such places. Best of places to be meeting." 

"Precisely." Miss Rebecca straightened, ignoring the wind and taking Jules' arm as if to shield him with part of her cloak. "We'll have to find you some likely livery as well. If you're to blend in, we'll need you to look the part." 

The wall was not so much of an obstacle for the three of them and there were no dogs patrolling the grounds. The kitchen was a large room at the back, as Passepartout thought it must be, with smaller buildings set to one side for the dairy and confectionery that an old estate would have required. The windows blazed with light - such an expense! - on every floor, making it more difficult to cross the grounds to the house, but the kitchen's outer buildings provided some cover. 

Three men stood just outside the stone steps at the rear of the kitchen, smoke rising in a cloud around them as they buffered themselves from the worst of the wind by using a decorative brick edging for cover. They wore powdered wigs, black breeches, gray stockings, black buckled shoes, black ties, and gray double-breasted waistcoats beneath short black frock coats. 

"Guards?" asked Miss Rebecca thoughtfully, her voice barely loud enough to be heard. 

"Staff." Passepartout had not meant to hiss the word, but did so even as the men's laughter carried to them on the wind. "They are smoking the gentlemen's cigars." He shook his head with disgust at the notion. 

Miss Rebecca touched his hand as if in consolation for the staff's affront to good serving manners, then studied both Jules and himself. "It might be a tight fit for you, Passepartout, but the clothing should fit Jules splendidly." 

"Right." Teeth gritted, Jules half-rose from their crouched cover as if to proceed, but Passepartout caught his arm. 

"This is for Miss Rebecca to be starting," he warned, catching her eye. 

She flashed him a quick grin in response, then removed her cloak, draping it over Jules with a raised eyebrow that could have been a wordless request to hold it, hiding the charitable nature of the gesture. Too intent on the action again, Jules seemed not to notice the immediate advantage of the warm cloak, although he did draw it around himself automatically. 

Miss Rebecca gave no response to the cold herself - her face was smooth and serene, her eyes bright, as always in times like this. She brushed a hand down the skirt of her plain brown dress and met Passepartout's gaze again. "Will I pass?" 

"You are new children's maid from next door, sneaking out, no better than you should be," said Passepartout, after studying her and giving her a nod. "Babies have grown tiresome. These men will not be thinking this is odd." 

"It would seem I'm looking for better toys, then." 

Jules touched a hand to her back lightly, his attention still fixed on the servants. "Success." 

"Thank you." Miss Rebecca left them and moved behind the confectionery, to their right. She was their lure - they were fishing for bad servants. 

Watching her go, then turning back to watch the staff sneaking stolen pleasure from their master's cigars, Jules whispered, "She has no idea how dangerous this is, does she?" 

"Is not League and Count Gregory danger," said Passepartout, patting the writer's shoulder. "Is more in the way of embarrassing Master Fogg. We do no harm if there is no harm being done." 

Miss Rebecca escaped from the shadow of the confectionery slowly, as if wishing to be seen. One of the men dropped his cigar to the ground guiltily, stamping upon it as soon as he spotted her and watching her suspiciously, but the other two approached her, moving closer to the kitchen buildings. There was no threat to her movements, her hands held wide and fluttering as she talked. She gathered her arms to herself and shivered and one of the servants removed his frock coat, with no small amount of difficulty in his haste to impress her. He handed it to her and she thanked him genteelly. 

The third man was still watching, his cigar tapped out beneath his heel. Passepartout spared the man one last glance, then touched Jules on the shoulder and gestured toward the rear of the confectionery - the building was angled enough to give them some cover if Miss Rebecca could lure the men behind it. As they crept along in the shadows they could hear Miss Rebecca's voice, and the male voices answering as the trio moved closer. Passepartout held out a hand as they reached the edge of the building and Jules stopped behind him. They could see that Miss Rebecca had maneuvered the men with their backs to the confectionery; she was leading them into the shadows with flirtatious and promising remarks until they were beyond sight of the more cautious servant at the kitchen door 

Passepartout turned to Jules and put a finger to his lips. In response, Jules removed the cloak from his shoulders, holding it in his hands like a drape. Miss Rebecca's shadow moved closer - much too close - to one of the men. 

There was no need to whisper a signal - Passepartout watched the shadow of her hand on the ground and when it moved thusly, so did he. He placed his hand over the mouth of the second servant from behind, dragging him further into the shadows. Jules threw the cloak around the man's legs, tripping him, as Passepartout knocked the servant's head against the building. He didn't wish to break the man's skull, but the servant had been improper - smoking the master's cigars! The man was sufficiently dazed for Passepartout to tie a handkerchief around the man's mouth, gagging him, but he was still conscious, struggling, and more than an armful. 

"You must be knocking him out, Jules," said Passepartout quietly, some part of him aware that there was no longer any sound from Miss Rebecca's conquest. 

Jules made a face, but pulled back his fist and struck the man's chin. He winced after the blow and shook his hand in pain, but tried again when the man still struggled. The second blow succeeded where the first had not and the man slumped against Passepartout. 

"He will be waking up sore," noted Passepartout, catching sight of the dismayed look on Jules' face. "But he will not be dead." 

"Neither will he," announced Rebecca, dragging the first unconscious servant back to them and dropping him on the ground. She wiped her hands on the skirt of her dress, her collar looking more than a little bedraggled. "Jules, strip. Passepartout - you'll need jacket, gloves and wig to bring in our last fish." 

Jules stared wide-eyed for a moment, then began to remove his jacket. He seemed not to notice as Miss Rebecca removed lengths of cord from her person and dropped them onto the ground - they would be good for the binding. She then knelt to remove the wig and gloves of the servant she'd knocked out. 

The man's jacket was a tight fit - better for Jules later than for him, but Passepartout had discarded his waistcoat, slipped into the jacket and began pulling on the gloves as soon as Miss Rebecca handed them to him. She plopped the powered wig on his head and then arranged it, frowning slightly. "I don't like the look of the beard much," she announced stepping back from him, but added quickly, "although it looks perfectly charming on you. Still, from this distance - just take care, will you?" She turned to Jules, who was down to his shirt and trousers. "Keep watch at the other end, would you, Jules? And get out of those clothes!" 

Jules opened his mouth as if to protest, then turned. He stopped long enough to grab one end of the cloak and roll the servant out of it before heading in the direction she'd indicated. 

Miss Rebecca stared after him a moment, making no real effort to hide her amused grin. "We must do something about his misplaced sense of propriety." 

Knowing better than to answer, Passepartout made a final adjustment on the sleeve of the jacket. "Am being ready now." 

"Good." Her full attention settled back upon him and she nodded, as if approving what she saw. "Not too much, now. Just give him a glimpse of what he's hoping to see. He dropped that cigar quickly enough - definitely the cautious sort." 

"Yes, Miss Rebecca." Then it was only a matter of walking to the outer edge of the building, to lean enough from cover not to be fully seen, and to gesture the last servant forward. Once that mission had been performed, he slipped back into the shadows and began to methodically strip the servants that had already been rendered harmless. 

At some point, Miss Rebecca dropped the third unconscious man to the ground and begun to remove his clothing as well. 

"I'll do that, Rebecca," said Jules hastily, having returned wearing the cloak around himself, his trousers and shirt draped over his arm. 

"Drawers, too," warned Rebecca, pointing at him. "You can't wear those stocking and breeches over them." 

Passepartout looked up to see Jules frown. "Miss Rebecca, it would be good if you are taking the watches, now." 

"Yes, Passepartout. Of course." If he saw a smile flicker along her lips, he made no mention of it. She placed a hand on Jules' shoulder as if in apology as she passed him and headed toward the far end of the kitchen buildings to make certain they weren't overtaken by someone else emerging from the house. 

There was almost clothing enough between the three men to fit them. Passepartout dressed quickly - assisted in part by a desire to get out of the cold - then aided Jules with the unfamiliar breech and stocking buckles. They bound the men, who were down to their underdrawers, and propped them up against the back of the buildings. 

"We can't leave them like this," said Jules, tucking his gloves into the top of his waistcoat for momentary keeping. "They'll freeze." 

Passepartout stared down at the men and nodded, remembering his own words to Jules earlier - these men were bad servants, but there was no surety of them being bad men as well. "We put them in the dairy's building," he agreed. "There is warm and there is no wind." 

Jules looked relieved at the prospect and when Miss Rebecca returned, having given them sufficient time to dress themselves, she agreed with that plan. It was the most dangerous of all the things they had done that night because it exposed them to the front of the buildings and the yard before the kitchen area, flooded with light from the house windows. They moved the men one at a time, Miss Rebecca keeping watch with a pail in her hand as if she were a dairymaid on an errand. A last check of the binding ropes and gags and a bar placed across the outer door of the dairy made them all feel a bit safer. 

Discarding the pail, Miss Rebecca accompanied them on the slow walk toward the kitchen door. "The costume suits you, Jules." 

He grinned back at her, pleased by the compliment. "I must look like my grandfather." 

"Then may I say that your grandmother was indeed a lucky woman?" Miss Rebecca glanced at him again. "I thought there were black ties?" 

"Not being ties," corrected Passepartout. He gestured toward Jules and they both removed the items from their frock coat pockets, then held them over their eyes. "Masks." 

She chuckled low in her throat. "Perfect." Catching Jules' mask in her hands, she stepped behind him to tie it and tuck the ends out of sight beneath the wig, then did the same for Passepartout. "Gloves?" she said sharply, the comment directed toward Jules. 

For a moment Passepartout couldn't see, but as she adjusted the mask the eye-holes slipped into place and he saw Jules struggling with the gloves. 

"These are too tight, as well," the writer announced. "These men must have incredibly small hands." 

Before Miss Rebecca could offer, Passepartout stepped forward and took Jules' hand in his, expertly threading the glove over each finger and down the palm. "You should be feeling sorry for the man," whispered Passepartout, with a mock scolding tone to his voice. "Small hands do not have such good meanings sometimes." 

Jules stared at him for a moment, then chuckled, but Rebecca was behind them. "Hurry up, you two," she warned, "or I shall cease pretending I have no idea what you're talking about." 

"Yes, Miss Rebecca," said Passepartout, chastened, and Jules sobered as well, but they shared a grin behind her back again when she passed them. They opened the rear door of the manor and slipped into the empty back pantry, then moved onto the kitchen proper. 

The room was awash with frighteningly delicious smells. Passepartout realized with a sinking feeling that he'd nibbled on only a small piece of mutton to ease his own hunger, after having delivered a few tidbits to Jules in the drawing room. The heat here was refreshing, after the cold of the outdoors. 

There were cooks, other liveried servants like themselves, and a few female servants dressed in clothing that was . . . brief, to say the least. Their black skirts hung down in the back, but rose just above their knees at the front, their shoulders were bare, the necks of their blouses were lower than the most scandalous of evening clothes, a thin black net of lace leaving almost nothing to the imagination. Even the shoes were remarkable, more heel than anything else and leading to the legs covered with sheer stockings of black lace. 

"Close your mouth, Jules," whispered Rebecca, from behind them. "And you, too, Passepartout." 

"You're not going to dress . . . like that?" asked Jules. 

Passepartout cast him an envious look, he could never have kept the squeak out of his own voice - it showed quite a bit of control for Jules to have managed such a thing. He cleared his throat. "Miss Rebecca, Master Fogg, if he should see you--" 

"Look at their _faces_, gentlemen." 

Miss Rebecca's voice was low, but sharp. With some amount of guilt, Passepartout realized that he had not looked at anything between the neck and the mob caps that covered the women's hair . . . nor had he seen the masks covering their eyes, similar to his own. 

"Phileas will never recognize me." 

"I wouldn't bet your pin money on it," said Jules, the comment the barest breath of a whisper and made so softly that Passepartout was certain Miss Rebecca was not meant to hear it. 

A man dressed in even more formal livery stalked toward them with a grim expression. "What are you doing?" He pointed toward Jules. "You - upstairs. A number of gentlemen are ready to retire, you should be guiding them to their rooms." 

Passepartout nodded toward Jules ever so slightly, but the steward - for that's whom he must have been - then turned a glare at him. "And you should be serving. Where's your tray?" 

Rebecca pushed between the two of them, eyes lowered demurely and with a less than proper accent that might have started Passepartout if he hadn't heard it from her before. "I'm new here, sir, and these gentl'men were kind enough to help me find my ways." 

The steward's face twisted into a half-smile, whether at the sight of Rebecca's disheveled collar or the thought that Phileas and Passepartout might be taken as 'gentl'men' was not immediately apparent. "You should be dressed already, girl. Here, I'll take you there myself. And you two--" He turned an evil eye on the pair of them even as he grabbed Miss Rebecca's arm proprietarily. "Get back to work!" 

She winked at them briefly over her shoulder, then became immediately demure and respectful as the steward led her away - the man was positively drooling over her. 

"Him, I could hit," muttered Jules angrily. 

"We must be gettings to work." Passepartout looked around the area, then snatched a silver serving tray from one of the wash piles and rubbed it with the elbow of his jacket. "You be looking upstairs for Master Fogg and I be looking down here. If we are not seeing him or we are seeing him and everything is well, we are meeting back here in one hours. And then we go home, with no trouble." 

"I don't think that's possible," answered Jules, as one of the pretty female servants swept by them with a tray of empty glasses and a broad smile. He licked his lips, and then sobered suddenly. "If anyone touches Rebecca, he's a dead man." 

"I am thinking Miss Rebecca will be taking quite good care of her person." 

"That's what I'm saying." Jules' eyes looked worried. "Passepartout, how should I act? I don't want to cause any trouble, but I have no idea what I'm supposed to be doing." 

Passepartout grinned and patted him on the shoulder. "Say 'yes, sir,' and 'no, sir' and be looking very, very bored. If anyone is giving you money, you are keeping it and saying, 'thank you, sir.'" 

"Money?" asked Jules, confused. 

"You are being more than fine." Passepartout gave him a slight push between the shoulder blades, moving him toward the direction of the door. "Go, go, go." 

He got a sense of an expression on Jules' face behind the mask, the look of a man being sent to his own execution. Passepartout headed toward the under steward for his instructions, his silver tray tucked smartly beneath his arm, smiling at the thought. Better for Jules to learn how to pretend to be a servant in this place, where there was to be no real danger, than possibly to someday hide from the League of Darkness in plain sight as a servant and not know how to behave. 

**** 

End of Part 3 

**** 


	5. Chapter 5

**** 

Damnation and Hellfire - Chapter Four 

The music played by the string quarter in the corner of the main salon would have been considered a timeworn tune back when Sir Boniface Fogg had been a boy. There was a taste of the previous century to it, a cloying, too-sweet quality that reminded one of gilt ceilings, powdered wigs, and marzipan. It would never have been tolerated in the august recesses of the Reform Club. 

But, Phileas noted with a wry smile, he was as far from the serene sanctity of the Reform Club as one could be within the city of London and yet still maintain contact with the most powerful and influential men of the age. Touching a finger to adjust the silk mask that supposedly obscured his identity, he stood beside the fireplace, sipped his brandy, and surveyed the room. 

There a duke - perhaps an archduke, it was difficult to tell the uncle and nephew of that family apart - was flirting with one of the serving girls, if one could call such an activity 'flirting.' One of the footmen had approached the worthy gentleman and his conquest, discretely indicating that there was a private room awaiting his convenience on an upper floor. It was the current fashion in society to livery one's footmen in the togs of the previous century - he wondered what Passepartout would feel about such an inconvenience. 

The choice was appropriate for the atmosphere of the club - the servants were both functional and decorative, melting into shadowed silence at the sides and back of the room as if they were trained troops awaiting a call to action. Glasses were refilled with wines and liquors without fuss, while a variety of cigarettes and cigars could be had at the merest raising of a finger. The cloud of resultant smoke circled the room, but rose above, hovering beneath the high ceiling whose frescos, from what he could see through the haze, concerned subjects of a nature even more lewd than those covering the paneled insets in the walls. 

A buffet had been provided at the rear of the room for those gentlemen who wished to dine in public, rather than in the privacy of the rooms upstairs, but he could not bring himself to approach it. As much as he admired the proportions of the young woman who had been so decorously draped with fruit and greenery, there was something unsettling in deliberating between the squab and the roast while the centerpiece smiled so winsomely. He seemed one of the few so disinclined; although the footmen made an effort to assist gentlemen in obtaining their desires in the most efficient method possible, the table was more often than not obscured from view by the peckish crowd. 

"Enjoying yourself, Mr. Fogg?" 

Everyone from members to serving staff was masked, at least in the public areas of the club, and yet the gentleman who addressed him was instantly identifiable. Tall, with a distinguished air, the Baron had spent more of his life in Germany than in England. He was blond, hair left unfashionably long at the back and he'd foregone the customary sideburns for a slick, well-tended mustache. Although Phileas guessed the man was at least a decade older than himself, he didn't look it. 

"Lord Whitmore." 

His pause in replying was more than enough to signal Phileas' displeasure at having his name announced aloud. Baron Whitmore simply chuckled. "My pardon - I suppose we all long to share in the anonymity of vice. But as full members of the inner circle of the Hellfire Club, we don't have that luxury." The Baron held out his hand, waiting until Phileas switched his drink to his other hand, and shook it firmly. "Welcome, Mr. Fogg." 

It was no small matter to be accepted as a member of the inner circle to any club, never mind a club such as this one. Phileas nodded his acceptance at the honor with an ample amount of decorum, but retrieved his hand from Whitmore's grasp as quickly as possible and reacquainted himself with his drink. "I take it my credentials have been accepted?" 

"Without question. And impressive - quite impressive." Whitmore grinned, teeth flashing like a carnivore sighting prey. "You've only to swear to them before the inner circle and sign your name in the Book of Sin." 

Phileas nearly choked on his drink at the last comment and was forced to retrieve his handkerchief from his breast coat pocket, dabbing genteelly at his lips to cover his amusement before returning it. "Book of Sin?" 

"Dramatic, isn't it? But it should be dramatic; it's not every day a man commits his soul to dark purposes." 

"You'd be surprised." Phileas cleared his throat, directing his gaze across the room rather than meet Whitmore's eyes. "And then?" 

"It'll be the duty of this club to provide you with anything you desire." 

"Within limits, of course," said Phileas coolly. 

Whitmore chuckled. "There _are_ no limits for the members of the inner circle of the Hellfire Club." When he raised an eyebrow, questioning the statement, Whitmore laughed again. "I can't quite make you out, Fogg. You're well traveled, financially secure, and one of the luckiest devils of which I've ever heard tell, both with cards _and_ with the ladies. And I don't doubt that you have some useful political connections as well. I can't think why you'd need to come to us to sate your deepest desire." 

"Perhaps because I've not found it anywhere else?" Phileas let that statement rest between them for a moment before looking away in disdain. "Shall I sign the book here?" 

"No - we'll want more ceremony than that, as well as a bit of privacy. There's a room we use upstairs for such occasions. You'll be introduced to the other members of the inner council and hear them recite their sins as well. That's what makes this work - twelve men, all of whom hold the power of ruination over one another. If one falls, they all fall. No one stands higher nor lower than any of his brethren." 

"Except for you?" asked Phileas. He made the comment with a wry smile, letting Whitmore know there was no malice in it. 

"Except for me. Thirteen - that's the number for a true coven - and someone's got to lead, after all. Someone's got to keep the rest in order, to weed out the wheat from the chaff." He sobered for a moment. "You may be called upon for that sort of thing now and again, to do such favors for the club or other members of the inner circle. As it seems to have been in your line of work in the past, it's something over which you'll not lose any sleep." 

Lifting his glass to his lips, Phileas polished off the remainder of the brandy. He placed the glass on the empty tray of a passing footman and was pleased to note that his hand wasn't shaking - he very well thought it might. "And for which I'll be amply rewarded, no doubt?" 

"Rewarded?" Whitmore laughed again and clapped him on the shoulder in a friendly fashion. "Think of it, Fogg - no perversion is prevented, no debauchery or deviance denied in this place. You'll be treated like a god. All that's required is your name on a slip of paper . . . ." 

Finding himself entranced by the fervent look in the man's eyes, Phileas forced his gaze away. "Is that the going rate of godhood in this economy? It seems little enough." 

"It's settled, then." Whitmore took his hand again, his grip firm and confident beyond measure. "If you'll excuse me for the moment - I've much to prepare. One of my men will bring you to us when the proper time arrives." He gestured toward the footmen and maids standing in martial order along the walls. "I've seen you enjoy our hospitality on other nights - why not find some amiable company and relax? Once you're a member of the inner circle you'll have permanent, private accommodations, but for tonight I've reserved a room upstairs for you. See if anything takes your fancy. If we must interrupt, you can always finish after the ceremony. Consider it your first opportunity to take advantage of the full benefits of membership - _no_ limits." 

"Thank you." There was nothing to do but bow with proper courtesy and Phileas did so, but found Whitmore still studying him. 

"What is it that you want from us?" the baron asked, refusing to let the issue rest; he features momentarily resembled those of a bulldog gnawing the marrow from a particularly difficult bone. "What can we provide you, that you could never have found elsewhere?" 

"We'll see when the time comes, won't we?" 

Phileas hadn't been certain that being enigmatic would serve him as well as it did - Whitmore paused as if to question him further, but then decided better of it and left after awarding the trick to him with an overly formal, if sarcastic bow. It was a relief to be rid of the man; there had been too many opportunities to make mistakes. 

And yet what was his alternative for entertainment? He would hardly describe the atmosphere of the main club salon as 'convivial.' Conversation wouldn't go entirely amiss with him at the moment, but he felt little disposed to join the earthy discussions that he overheard in moving across the room. Another drink was brought to him and Phileas took it automatically, without bothering to register whether a footman, a maid, or a page delivered it. Even a lingering scent brought little hope of identification - all three seemed to wear equally distressing amounts of perfume or cologne and his nostrils had been pressed long past the point of discerning the difference among them. 

He glanced up, met another member's eyes across the room . . . and that worthy quickly grasped his mask as if to make certain it were well in place before turning quickly away. Phileas turned his back to the man, to allow the poor fellow some ease in the matter. The general membership didn't interest him a jot, generally moral men in search of a little adventure as well as some fashionable misdeeds to feed the baser parts of their natures. What should it matter to him if a member of parliament with whom he'd discussed the passage of the new transport taxes at the Reform Club had acquired an indelicate taste for Hellfire? It was the inner circle upon which he'd set his sights. If Whitmore had been truthful, only after he joined the inner circle would he achieve his goal. 

Again taking up a position of relative quiet by the fireplace, he absently noticed for the first time that the fresco on the wall behind him depicted an act he believed physically impossible for any two individuals, unless they were both extremely talented contortionists. But Phileas sipped at his drink and bided his time. There'd been no sign of pursuit from Saville Row earlier, which had been something of a blessing. He'd dreaded a tasteless chase through the evening streets or an unfortunate confrontation at the front of this establishment. 

To abandon the charade of insobriety that he'd been so careful to assume before Rebecca's return to London, and even after, would have been foolishness. It had been his experience that a man with loose lips was given far more credence for reliable information in a social setting if he were in his cups as well. To use Passepartout and Rebecca to test the veracity of his performance as well as mislead them as to his true purpose had been a matter of convenience. He'd been hard-pressed to maintain the pretense in front of Passepartout tonight. And that incident when he'd seen Verne standing in the study, to have thought even for a moment that it might be . . . . 

_The voice hesitated, words stumbling and tumbling over themselves in fits and starts. "I hadn't meant any harm. You have to believe that, Unc--Phileas." _

"Arthur, you've never harmed a soul in your life!" 

"Don't say that! Not--not now . . . ." 

There had been a threat of tears in the voice and in the eyes. A child who'd endured a broken leg in a fall from a tree without a sniffle and now the man that he'd become was on the verge of crying? The memory of the child had made Phileas want to open his arms and offer comfort, but the reality of the man, however young, gave him pause - the response was inappropriate. 

He'd walked over to the decanter. "If you've fallen in with bad company--?" 

The responding laugh from Arthur was so forceful and immediate that Phileas' hand had shaken in surprise as he'd lifted the lid from the decanter. 

"Bad company? Oh, you have no idea! A friend from school was a member - the new Hellfire Club. He said the women were clean there, and pretty. That you could do anything you wanted, with anyone you wanted. It went too far, that was all. It went too far . . . ." 

Phileas poured a single glass of claret and then, after a glance at his godson's distracted stare, a second. "You should be telling your father this." 

"No!" When Phileas approached with the glass of claret, Arthur backed up a step, as if panic stricken. He glanced at the door, at Phileas, and then to the study door again. "No - father mustn't know. He'd be ruined. You won't tell him, you mustn't tell him!" 

"It's all right, Arthur," he'd said soothingly, placing the glasses back down beside the decanter. "I won't tell your father, but it would be better if you did. If it's as difficult as you say, you can't mean to solve this on your own. Fathers . . . we don't often think that fathers will understand, but they do, sometimes." 

There was what he thought was a look of understanding in his godson's eyes, a determination that hadn't been there a moment before. "Yes, that would be the answer, wouldn't it? Just to solve it." 

Phileas had turned back to pick up the glasses and paused there a moment, lost in the memory of his own sharp words with a father he had been certain would never understand. "You have to give him a chance," he explained, picking up the glasses and turning. "You have to--" 

The study door was closing behind Arthur, the front door slamming shut even before Phileas had divested himself of the glasses and had crossed the room. He'd met Passepartout in the foyer. 

"Master? I am hearing the door's slamming--?" 

"My hat, gloves, stick, and coat, Passepartout," Phileas called over his shoulder, as he headed for the door. "I'm going out." 

But he hadn't waited for them, hadn't waited for anything. He'd paused at the doorstep then the sidewalk, but there was no sign of his godson. A cab had just started away and Phileas dashed after it, hailing it, stopping it - there were two frightened elderly women inside to whom he'd apologized profusely and who'd made muttered comments about excessive drinking. 

The cab had rattled off, leaving him leaning his hands on his knees in the middle of the cobblestone street, his breath escaping in gasps of white mist. 

Phileas swallowed the rest of the brandy in a single gulp; it was a crime to treat fine old liquor in that cavalier of a fashion, but the sting of it helped bring him back to himself. Two weeks and yet it felt like a lifetime ago. 

It was not too late, however, to make amends . . . at least in some form. 

Sighing, he placed the second empty glass of the evening on another passing footman's tray, but held up his hand to stop the immediate offer of another. He'd be no good to himself, or to Arthur, if he tried to see this through boneless as a jellyfish or so tightly wound that he saw phantoms at every turn. Perhaps he should take Whitmore's advice - an unencumbered tumble with one of the lovelies the club provided might just help him relax. 

The thought had merit. It might seem rude, even odd, for a man with his reputation with the ladies to turn down Lord Whitmore's friendly offer. He wandered over to a new vantagepoint, his back to the main door and his shoulder against the doorjamb, and took note of the available stock. Their service livery left so little to the imagination he was almost disappointed . . . almost. Certainly the usually hidden flaws were glaringly visible, but so were usually hidden assets. 

He'd almost decided to snag a footman to arrange the far-from-delicate negotiations necessary to acquire the services of one particularly lovely creature at the far end of the room, when he caught a whiff of a shockingly familiar scent from behind him. After having thought his sense of smell deadened at least until he could again breathe fresh, winter air, it arrested his attention. 

As did the glimpse of red hair and the maid's costume he caught from out of the corner of his eye. 

Without hesitation, Phileas turned and purposefully precipitated a catastrophe. 

**** 

End of Chapter 4 

**** 


	6. Chapter 6

**** 

Damnation and Hellfire - Chapter Five 

Rebecca leaned her back against the wooden door. "No, thank you, sar," she announced, biting her lip to keep from laughing. "I can manage changing on me own." 

The doorknob beside her rattled in vain - the key was in the lock. Her trip to the third floor had included stops at several dark alcoves along the way, which had led her to anticipate the steward's intentions when they finally reached their destination. She'd deftly plucked the key from his fingers when he'd unlocked the door to the maid's dressing room, addressed her heel firmly to his instep, and then slipped into the room even as she apologized for the accident. Before he'd quite recovered his balance and composure, she'd been on the other side of a solid, locked door. 

"Well--!" She heard him huffing in exasperation. "Hurry, then, girl! You'll not be paid for time spent dressing." 

"Yes, sar. No, sar," she agreed. 

"You're to report to the hostess in the main salon when you're ready." 

"Yes, sar. Thank you, sar." Rebecca stepped into the center of the small room and added a quiet, "Go to hell, sar," for good measure. 

An assortment of garments hung from hooks lining the walls; the only piece of furniture was a vanity table with a single cracked mirror above it. Makeup pots and perfume bottles were strewn across the top; she lifted the abandoned lid to one jar and placed it where it belonged, noting that the staff could hardly be considered diligent in their cleaning duties. Then again, they obviously weren't being employed for their household skills. 

Having some suspicion the room wasn't as private as the staff might think, Rebecca used discarded street clothes to cover the sixteen spy holes she soon discovered. It was then that she was finally forced to consider the logistics of changing from her dress into the limited costume. She realized immediately that she'd have to abandon her leather work clothes and a good number of her tools - the brief nature of the garments left not only little to the imagination, but damned few places to hide things as well. Her hair ornaments, her jewelry, a knife secreted within reach just below her shoulder blade, and a stout cord and wire were the best she was able to manage before accepting that she'd used up the time she'd allotted for the procedure. She tied her clothing into a ball, placed it into a corner beneath the vanity, then proceeded to remove the obstructions from the peepholes - frustration could only lead someone to further investigation, which she wanted to avoid. 

Having worked in a variety of states of dress and undress in her career, Rebecca hadn't much considered the nature of the costume she'd assumed until she unlocked the door. She weighed the brass key in her hand for a long moment and paused before exiting, feeling vulnerable to drafts in the most unfortunate places. In fact, vulnerable was the precise word she'd use to describe her current feelings. She had no illusions about her cousin's pursuit of the opposite sex on an entirely non-committal basis - he was a man, after all, and that was only to be expected - but she would have thought Phileas above this sort of adolescent highjinks. It was something of a disappointment, really. 

Could that be why he'd been so secretive? Why he'd been drinking to excess, carrying on all hours of the night . . . and yet it was Jules' opinion that Phileas hadn't been drunk tonight. Which meant there was something more to this, something other than Phileas suddenly flinging himself into a state of drunken debauchery. Not for the first time this evening Rebecca reconsidered having dragged Passepartout and Jules into this mess - yet she'd have been hard-pressed to keep the pair of them from trying to assist her. If it turned out there was nothing to this, Phileas would be furious and she'd have to make apologies for all three of them. If it turned out there was more-- 

But what more could there be? 

Steeling herself against drafts and the knowledge that she had less than an hour to investigate that question, Rebecca dropped the brass key into the front of her dress - my, that was colder than she expected! - opened the dressing room door, and sneaked out into the hallway. The sounds of mass revelry from the first floor were barely audible as she paused on the third floor landing of the grand staircase. The stairs continued up to yet another floor and she was tempted to explore, but considered that she might want to find Phileas first. To know where he was would be something of a comfort, especially if she could ascertain his whereabouts without letting him know that she was there. 

That meant descending to the second floor landing, the population of which took the form of a demented grand promenade. Men and women, often one man and more than one woman, were ascending the stairs from the lower floor arm in arm or even more closely intertwined. The couples would pause briefly at a table where a waiting footman bowed, accepted a key, then escorted them to what she assumed would be a private room. It was all incredibly civilized and highly efficient; the footmen even seemed prepared for those members the worse for drink and who'd barely made it up the stairs with their conquests in tow. 

It was during this covert scrutiny that she caught sight of Jules in the line of footmen. He didn't see her at first, appearing more than a little bored, rocking back and forth on his heels. The footman beside him shoved an elbow in his side and pointed to her as she reached the second floor landing, crossing it on her way down to the first. Rebecca waited until he glanced in her direction and saw his recognition of her identity despite her costume and the mask. Even at that distance, she couldn't miss the flush in his cheeks. 

She nodded toward him. Jules acknowledged the nod with a shake of his head that she took to mean he'd seen no sign of Phileas. Then he looked away quickly, the footman beside him catching hold of his arm and addressing him with a show of some animation. 

Her first thought was that she'd certainly raised Jules' profile with that brief acknowledgment, the second being that she'd made a mistake in doing so. He seemed relatively safe, certainly at an excellent vantage point to keep track of movement within the club. If forced to admit a motive, she would have said that she'd wanted to see if he could recognize her. The temptation to make him blush, however, was entirely self-indulgent and could have been dangerous in other circumstances. 

Averting her eyes as she hurried down the staircase to the lower floor, Rebecca deferred chiding herself until later - if Jules could recognize her that quickly, Phileas would do so in a quarter of the time. Avoiding Phileas would be paramount, at least until she'd had a chance to investigate further. 

Blending in with the main hall traffic on the first floor proved to be easier than she had at first anticipated. Footmen and maids passed back and forth from the kitchen to the room with the double doors she suspected to be the main salon, as well as other rooms, any of which might be the library, card room, or dining room. Members continued to arrive, exiting the entry vestibule sans outerwear and often grabbing hold of the first drink and maid to cross their path - Rebecca made an effort to remain on the fringes of activity and out of immediate access. Still, she suffered a number of squeezes and pinches from passing members and staff and was hard pressed not to respond as her nature dictated, if only to avenge the bruises she knew she'd find the next morning. When a footman carrying a tray maneuvered her into an alcove between two pillars, Rebecca automatically raised her elbow to give him a sharp jab in the ribs, but caught herself in mid-motion as she recognized the smile and other features beneath the mask - it was Passepartout! 

"Phileas?" she asked softly. 

He lifted the tray on his right hand high enough for her to see his left hand hidden beneath it, his finger pointing to the main salon. "He has not been recognizing me," whispered Passepartout, "but I am not going too nearby him. Master Jules?" 

"Second floor - he's fine. Have you seen anything suspicious?" 

Passepartout nodded and pointed toward another room, as if he were giving her directions, his eyes fixed on hers. "Is wines cellar down the stairs, behind the big stairs-case. I get more bottles of champagne. Large man is guarding door down there." 

"Keeping the staff's hands off the champagne?" guessed Rebecca, nodding as if accepting the directions he'd given. 

"No. I take two, three bottles - he is not asking why." 

"Perfect, Passepartout. Sounds exactly like the sort of thing that needs to be looked after." She squeezed his arm in thanks and was about to move around him, but Passepartout backed up a step, trapping her. 

"Is _very_ large man," he assured her. 

"I need you to keep an eye on Phileas for me," Rebecca said, leaning close to his ear. "And contrary to what you see, I'm not entirely defenseless." 

She hadn't meant to lean quite that close to him or in quite that direction. Passepartout had been making a valiant effort to meet her gaze, but her movement nearly upset his tray and in seeing to it, he seemed to see a bit more of her than he found comfortable. The gloved fingers of his left hand immediately rose to cover his eyes. "I am not seeing anything, Miss Rebecca," he assured her. "Although what I am not seeing is very nice." 

"Good man." She patted his shoulder, planted a quick and what she hoped to appear as flirtatious kiss on his cheek, then joined a group of maids and footmen headed toward the far rooms. Using them as cover, she managed to get past the main salon and around to the back of the staircase. A footman was just exiting the door to the wine cellar as she approached. Even with a bottle in either hand, he managed to hold the door open for her with quite a bit of gallantry. When he showed signs of following her down the darkened staircase, she pushed him back, closed the door quite firmly behind her, and held it shut. 

After assuring herself the footman had taken her none-too-subtle hint, Rebecca headed quietly down the stone stairway. Purely functional iron candlesticks were set in alcoves along the wall, but half of the candles were unlit or had burned down to their wicks, making the going treacherous in spots. The stone retained the cold and seemed to magnify it; Rebecca swore she could see the faint white mist of her breath against the darkness. 

The enclosed stairway finally ended in a basement. The extensive wine racks stood to her right, illuminated by a single candelabrum that had been set on a stool. To her left were a wall, a sturdy wood door, and a very large man dressed in street clothing, who sat in a chair before the door with his massive arms folded across his chest. The floor was composed of solid blocks of uneven stone; the delicate shoes that balanced her on her toes and showed her black lace covered calves to such advantage were proving to be a definite liability. 

Rebecca put a brave face on the situation, giving the guard an uncertain smile - his only response was to raise an eyebrow. Turning her back on him, she walked toward the wine racks hesitantly, as if overwhelmed. 

It wasn't quite that bad . . . she could take the man, given sufficient advantage. The clothing she was wearing, particularly the shoes, would be a detriment rather than an asset - he was either too dedicated to his duty to pay attention to her obvious assets or was suffering from an ennui due to overexposure to the female form. What she needed was something to set her apart from the brazen hussies that served as the staff in this place. 

Standing in front of the first wine rack, Rebecca tilted back her head and looked upward - the highest and dustiest bottles were at least a foot's length higher than her best reach and yet were nowhere near the ceiling. This cellar had been dug deep, the stone floor suggesting the foundation of a much older building, perhaps as far back as Roman Londinium. She could hear nothing of the chaos and revelry from the upper floor. As long as there were no interruptions, she was certain she could take out this thug even if she had to break every bottle over his skull to do so. 

The crowd above seemed to be a thirsty and demanding lot, so there was little hope in success by pelting the man with bottles until he fell - someone would be certain to notice the mess. What she needed was a quick, decisive blow. 

On tiptoes, Rebecca made a show of trying to reach one of the upper bottles. She uttered little noises of frustration, slipped sideways on her heels at least once, and used an expletive that a generally nice but sturdy girl of a certain class might find common to her speech. 

It was at least two minutes before she felt the presence behind her - she'd thought it would take at least five before he'd move. "'Ere, girl, wat you want?" 

"Sar, if you could gimme that one there? I'd be much obliged." Rebecca pointed toward the bottle beyond her reach and stepped back when he stepped forward. Slipping a bottle from a lower shelf, she hid it behind her back. As he reached up to take down the one she had indicated, Rebecca swung the other bottle against the back of his head. 

The bottle didn't spray as much as she thought it might - she'd luckily grabbed wine instead of champagne. The guard fell against the wine rack, hands grabbing for support before he turned toward her. She took another step back, still grasping the broken and jagged end of the bottle in her hand and falling into a half-crouch to further defend herself if necessary. His eyes were half-open and he shook his head as if to clear it, but failed. After two lumbering steps toward her, he toppled like a felled tree. 

Passepartout had been correct in his assessment; the man was _very_ large. Rebecca seized a ring of keys from him and set them on the stool beside the candelabrum, then grabbed hold of the man's hands and with some effort dragged him across the floor to the door he'd been guarding. Much as she would have liked to leave him behind the wine racks, there was too much of a chance of casual discovery. 

One of the keys fit the lock in the door. She dragged both the man, and the stool on which he'd been seated, beyond the now unlocked door. Returning to the wine racks to brush away as much of the broken glass as she could - from the look of the floor, this wasn't the first bottle that had been lost to an untimely crash - Rebecca set everything back to rights. Only then did she feel comfortable enough to lift a candle from the candelabrum and return to explore the area behind the guarded door. 

The door could be easily locked and unlocked from the reverse side - Rebecca left it locked to discourage any additional visitors. She also took a moment to bind the guard's hands behind his back and cut off a portion of his shirt to use as a gag. She found herself glancing over her shoulder uneasily down the short hall that led to a further door as she worked. There was a smell she couldn't quite identify, but which was familiar enough to set the hairs at the back of her neck tingling. 

Candle in hand, Rebecca found the key on the ring that unlocked that second door. Before entering the room, she held the candle aloft and peered inside. 

The candle flame flickered - there was air being vented in from the outside, although she couldn't immediately detect from where. A waist-high, gray stone block centered the room; it was the length of a man, with iron manacles attached to each of the four corners. Rebecca walked forward, still holding the candle high, and more details became visible - grooves cut into the rock that led to collecting pools. Her throat tight, she ran her finger along the inside of the groove and touched it to her lips. 

The tang of iron confirmed her fear - blood. Not dry and flaking, but still sticky. Something - no, the manacles caused her to change her conclusion to 'someone' - had died here not long ago. 

She turned and catalogued the various manacles and cages set about the sides of the room. A cold brazier stood in a corner, irons thrust into it. Whips, knives, pincers, and dozens of other instruments meant to inflict pain and torture were arranged on a scattering of hooks imbedded in another wall. 

A shudder ran through her as she recognized the smell that had made her uneasy in the hall outside - death. Not ancient death, but recent. The cries of the dead and dying still echoed here. And a passing reference Chatsworth had been made to body parts being found in the Thames suddenly made a horrifying form of sense. 

Leather bound cases, the size of a silver cutlery chest, sat on a shelf. She walked over and lifted one, placing it on a bench for examination. There was a family crest on the top, not immediately recognizable. Inside were knives and razors, cleaned to the point of brilliance, so sharp it hurt to look at them. Knowing there was little chance to remove such a thing from the premises, she closed it and returned it to the shelf. 

There were twelve cases, stacked neatly in three rows of four. Certainly more than twelve members in the entirety of the club - perhaps this was a private deviation? It was genius, hiding one form of vice within the cloak of another. The membership at large wouldn't know about the existence of this room and what occurred here. Certainly, Phileas would never have joined such a place had he known. 

There was another wall to explore, with another heavy door set in the center. Ignoring the candle wax that had dripped onto her hand, Rebecca approached the final door with no small amount of trepidation. On her knees, she held the candle high and tried each of the five keys on the ring, cursing softly when none of them fit. Her lock picks were on the third floor. The time she had set for Passepartout and Jules to meet her at the kitchen door was fast approaching. 

Here was the defining evil she had sought, the difference between dissolution and deviance. She had to get the others out of here, Phileas included. Sir Jonathan had to be shaken from his bed, made to understand the severity of the charges, made to mobilize the police. She would swear, give whatever testimony they required. If they came here, saw the room, were able to get through this final door-- 

Some greater part of her was numb, but whether from the cold or the horror of the thing, she couldn't say. Rebecca made her way through the inner door and locked it behind her, but the smell of death still lingered in her nostrils. She paused to check the guard on her way out, kicking him in the ribs for good measure, but he didn't awaken. She wanted him to hang. She wanted them _all_ to hang for this. 

It was only as she reached the wine cellar and locked the outer door behind her that she realized she had no set plan. Even though she'd locked the unconscious guard inside that torture room, there was still a chance of discovery - they didn't dare wait here another moment. She would find Passepartout and have him retrieve Phileas with whatever truth or lie would serve the purpose. Jules - she'd find him herself, needing to know that he was safe. There was little more to be done before this could be handed over to the authorities - let them deal with the depths of this foul thing. She was sick of the stink of it. 

Rebecca was halfway up the stairs before she realized she should take a bottle with her as an excuse for being in the cellar. She dismissed the thought and plodded upwards, concentrating on the slickness of the steps and the dim shadows cast by too few candles. The numb shock of horror would pass, to be followed by anger. She had to get out of here before that happened, or she might very possibly kill someone. 

She felt as if an eternity has passed since she'd entered the wine cellar, but the main hall was as busy as it had been before. 

"You, girl!" The steward approached her with a tray in his hands. He thrust it into hers and she juggled with it, trying to keep the glasses from being upset. "Take these to Lord Marsh - he's wearing the yellow-spotted cravat, in the right corner of the main salon. Be quick about it and don't let anyone else touch them - it's his private stock." 

The man had no idea how close he came - she could have cheerfully beaten him to a pulp with the tray in her hands if she'd had any evidence he knew what was in that locked room downstairs. As she made her way through the hall and into the main salon, she noted that most of the members seemed oblivious to anything but the temptation at hand. Twelve boxes, she must remember the twelve boxes . . . . 

She was struck from the left, unable to avoid the blur of black that stepped into her path. Her shoes tilted, heels giving way beneath her and she fell to the floor. As if in slow motion, she watched the glasses from her tray fly up into the air. Scotch rained down upon her, the tray clattered, and glass smashed on the hardwood floor not two inches from her hand. The blur in black resolved into Phileas standing over her, wearing an expression so cold and distant that he might have bestowed it upon no one short of a mortal enemy. She thought she had never seen anything more bone-jarringly frightening in her life. 

Until he smiled down at her. 

**** 

End of Chapter 5 

**** 


	7. Chapter 7

**** 

Damnation and Hellfire - Chapter Six 

Rebecca was sitting on the floor, staring up at him with the eyes of someone who'd just seen a man eviscerated. Phileas filed that assessment for the moment, realizing that if his cousin was here, she'd no doubt been unable to dissuade Jules or - yes, there was Passepartout behind her. Dressed in footman's livery, his valet had placed his hand on her arm in an attempt to assist her to her feet. 

Furious at her interference, annoyed beyond measure that Passepartout had been dragged into this - and certainly Jules, somewhere - he found he could do little more than glare down at her. He had to get them all out of here. And it was only when the idea came to him that he found himself able to smile. 

The club steward approached him, obsequious to a fault and a cloth in hand. "I'm terribly sorry, sir. Your jacket, your shirt, sir--!" 

He brushed away the man's ineffectual attempts at cleaning him up and pointed down at Rebecca. "Her!" 

The steward glanced down at Rebecca - her disarranged clothing barely within the realm of decency - then he stepped over her and knocked Passepartout away from her with a shove. "Leave her, you fool! Lord Marsh's drinks - get his private stock immediately." When Passepartout hesitated, he refused to meet his valet's eyes, still staring down at Rebecca. 

The steward picked up the fallen silver tray from the floor, struck Passepartout with the flat of it and ordered, "At once! Do you hear me! At once!" 

"Go," Phileas heard Rebecca whisper softly. "Passepartout, go--" 

The valet left on the errand - Phileas caught the man's backward glance out of the corner of his eye. 

"My apologies, sir," said the steward, bowing toward Phileas briefly. "Stupid girl. Stupid, stupid girl--" 

It was when the steward raised a hand to strike her that Phileas caught the man's wrist, stopping it in mid-motion. "I should think we've had enough of a scene _here_," said Phileas pointedly, giving a slight nod to the room as he released the man. 

The steward followed the gesture and turned pale at finding himself at the center of such discord. "Of course, sir," said the steward. He swallowed, looking down at the floor for a moment. "But the girl needs correction, sir." 

"I couldn't agree more." 

A smile flickered across the steward's taut lips - this he understood. "I assume you'd like to handle this matter yourself, sir?" 

"Absolutely." Reaching down, Phileas grabbed hold of Rebecca's forearm and hauled her to her feet in one movement. The gesture, although rough, implied no threat and she didn't fight him . . . until he slipped an arm around her waist and pinioned her wrists together behind her back. She pulled away preparatory to freeing herself and he moved closer, whispering, "Play along," into her ear. 

He felt her arms go slack and though she seemed to struggle, there was no real resistance - he well knew that if she'd actually tried to pull away from him he'd have had a damned difficult time holding onto her. "I believe Lord Whitmore has a room reserved for me?" 

"Yes, sir." The steward bowed again and moved toward the doorway. "Right this way, sir." 

Phileas pulled Rebecca along - she resisted with more force than he anticipated and he shook her slightly to let her know that she was overplaying her hand. He heard an angry growl from her as he dragged her along toward the staircase. 

"If you should need help, sir--?" the steward offered. 

"No, thank you." Phileas was pleased to see the steward appeared crestfallen at his terse reply. Then it was simply a matter of dragging Rebecca up the staircase, her struggling along the way, with a majority of the club watching. 

The further they moved up the series of wide steps, the more tenuous her costume became. Deciding there was nothing for it, Phileas descended to a step below her and braced his foot against the step. He turned her to face him too quickly for her to react with more than a vague sound of surprise at the sudden maneuver, and then draped her unceremoniously over his shoulder to the applause of the downstairs lobby. He turned to face them and because of the combative weight over his shoulder gave only a sketch of a bow, then headed up the stairs again with his cousin well in hand. 

"Damn you, Phileas," she snarled, striking him hard enough between the shoulder blades to hamper his stride for a step. 

"Temper, cousin," he warned her, his voice equally sharp and equally soft. "In _private_." 

For his own part, he was debating exacting how he was going to handle this situation - he had half a mind to throw a blanket over her for decency's sake and then give her a good slap on the bottom to help her on her way home. Knowing Rebecca, however, it seemed unlikely his plan would succeed past that initial stage. 

"The name is 'Fogg,'" he announced to a footman at the desk, when he reached the second floor landing. 

"Here, sir," said a voice that was entirely too recognizable - Verne. 

He turned to find Verne holding a key up in the air for his inspection and though the writer's expression was as uniform as his livery, his eyes were sharp as daggers. 

"Carry on," announced Phileas, stumbling again as Rebecca's spite-driven fist landed too near his kidney. He pinched her lower calf in retaliation and apart from her exclamation of dismay, there was no further sound from her - or attacks on his person - until they reached the room. 

Verne opened the door of the room, then stepped to one side of the hall, holding the key for Phileas to take. "Do you need--?" 

"No, thank you. I can handle the wench on my own." Phileas tossed a coin directly at his face and when Verne ducked, he quickly slammed the door and slipped the key into the lock. 

Once inside the room, even before he'd released her, Rebecca announced, "How dare you! What--!" 

He couldn't let her finish the sentence. Dropping her to her feet, Phileas placed a hand over her mouth and pushed her quickly back towards the bed. He fell atop her on the counterpane and before she could push him off, whispered, "We're being overlooked. Follow my lead." 

She stilled at his words. Phileas took the moment to raise himself off the bed enough to shrug out of his coat, hissing, "Struggle, dammit!" 

"You don't have to worry about that." She pulled herself out from beneath him and then tugged the counterpane from under his knees, so that he fell forward onto the bed. He reached for her but she was a step beyond him, making it across the width of the bed and to the other side. 

Phileas managed to catch hold of one leg, his fingers snagging in the black lace netting of her stockings and tearing them. As Rebecca continued to fall from the bed, he went with her, nearly landing on top of her. One movement and he pinned her - she was face down on the floor. Grabbing her left arm, he twisted it carefully behind her back and leaned over her, as if kissing her. "Get Verne and Passepartout out of here now," he instructed her. 

"What are you up to?" 

"Must you interfere?" 

"Awkward question at the moment." When he shifted and released his hold on her, Rebecca turned in his arms, facing him. "What are you doing here?" 

"That's none of your concern." Phileas placed a hand on her right shoulder as if pinning her to the floor. 

"Have you developed a taste for torture?" she whispered. "And murder?" 

Her face went pale as she spoke the words - for a moment Phileas forgot to pretend he was ravishing her. "What?" 

Rebecca's leg shifted against his body, moving his weight from her and to one side, but her eyes never left his. "Have you been to the basement?" 

"No." Remembering the look on her face when she'd fallen to the floor of the main salon, he pushed himself up from her slightly. "You have?" 

"It looks like Torquemada's nursery," she whispered. "There's some sort of unholy altar - the blood's fresh. No bodies, but there's a stench - you can't imagine what they have down there . . . ." 

"Good God." Raising his left fist to his lips, Phileas paused momentarily. Almost absently, he reached for the counterpane and drew it down toward himself and covering Rebecca's state of dishabille. The problem was that he very well could imagine, building only from her words and her previous expression of stunned horror. He'd seen the look on her face once before, when Sir Boniface had received the first details of the massacre at Cawnpore in their presence and had begun to share the information with them without realizing exactly what the message contained. 

Phileas remembered his father's voice shaking as he recounted the torture, murder, and dismemberment of the women and children at the Bibighar gardens, for his father was not a man to start something and not see it through to the very end. Sir Boniface had stood by the window to catch the light as he read; Rebecca had been seated in a chair beside his father. Phileas had found the words so unreal that his attention had centered only on his cousin's expression. Her complexion had grown paler, her eyes wider, and then finally, when the worst of it had passed, he'd seen the tracks of two silent tears, one on each cheek. There'd been no sound from her as his father read aloud the account of the atrocities. 

Downstairs she'd had the same look on her face, the same look that Arthur had had - yes, he could identify that now. What had Arthur said? That it had gone too far--? 

God. 

Rebecca sat up, blanket draped around her, and caught hold of his arm. "What is this, Phileas?" she asked, in a hoarse whisper. "What have you fallen into?" 

A sudden, sharp rap at the door startled him. Phileas sat up, noting almost absently that he'd bitten his knuckle and drawn blood. "Damn you - yes!" he shouted in answer to the knock, then pressed a hand lightly to the counterpane as a warning and whispered, "Stay down." It might be Verne, but it might very well _not_ be Verne and he didn't want to take any further chances. 

"Sir?" asked the voice at the other side of the door. 

Not Verne, then. 

Phileas rose to his feet and headed for the door, his fingers flying as he released the tie at his neck to give himself a more disheveled appearance. Once he reached the door, he threw it open and barked, "What?" in a manner he felt commensurate to a man whose intimate pleasures had been rudely interrupted. 

The footman's gaze was lowered in subservient discretion. "Lord Whitmore requests your attendance, sir." 

"Oh. Yes." The footman's gaze shifted past him, into the room. Phileas turned his head and saw that Rebecca was peering over the counterpane. With her mask askew, her cap gone, her hair disheveled, and her costume pulled down sufficiently, she appeared vulnerable, as if she might be completely unclothed. 

Clearing his throat, Phileas stared down at the tie in his hand for a moment, and assumed the air of command and privilege that came so easily to him. "Lord Whitmore assured me that I might afterwards . . . ?" 

"Certainly - the room is yours, sir." The footman nodded. "I'd ask you to keep your key, if you'd wish to continue here, sir. Although if you wish to continue . . . elsewhere?" 

"Elsewhere?" asked Phileas, perplexed by the question. 

The footman dropped his gaze again. "I've been informed that special accommodations are available on the lower levels to address the needs of the members of the Inner Circle." 

A chill stole through Phileas as the import of that banal phrasing struck home. "No," he said, adding a yawn to convey a full sense of disinterest to the footman. "I should think here will be sufficient." 

"I'll see to it, sir." "Good." Phileas smiled slightly and inclined his head toward Rebecca. "If you'd just give me a minute, then?" 

"Yes, sir." 

Phileas closed the door, turned the key in the lock and hurried back to Rebecca - she'd risen from beneath the cover of the counterpane and was hiking the bodice of her dress back into position. 

"I must be getting myself back to work, sar." 

He paused at the accent, smiled honestly in approval, then moved closer to her. Catching hold of her wrists, one in each hand, he pushed them behind her back and drew her against him. "Terribly sorry about the delay," he murmured, his lips moving closer to her own. "Completely unavoidable." 

Rebecca didn't show the least amount of alarm until she felt his hands wrap his tie around her wrists, but by then it was too late to do more than hiss, "Phileas!" 

He pushed on her shoulder to spin her around, knocking her face down on the bed against the disarrayed counterpane. His right foot remained on the floor, the left knee was bent partially on the bed and partially on her back to hold her in position as he tied her hands with a knot she would find particularly troublesome. The tie was silk - he'd give her no less than eight minutes to get out of it, enough of a delay to prevent her from following him. 

Leaning down as he tied her hands, he whispered, "Free yourself, collect the others, and go." 

"No!" she cried loudly, her legs kicking, and then she added, more quietly, "What are you doing?" 

"Keeping you otherwise occupied until I can see this through. Get Verne and Passepartout - you brought them here and if anything happens to them it's your fault. Keep that in mind." He smacked her bottom with the flat of his hand and backed away from the imminent danger of her flailing legs. "Sorry to run," he announced. " wait for me, darling." 

Rebecca had flipped over. Her gaze promised him a horrible death at her hands the moment she got free, but her parted lips didn't deliver the words she might have intended because her movements sent the counterpane slipping from the bed. Caught up in the tangle of cloth, all she managed was a startled, "Oof!" and a growl of impotent fury when she disappeared from view and hit the floor on the other side. 

"I feel the same." Remembering to grab his coat, Phileas headed for the door, turned the key in the lock and escaped before she could utterly forget herself and the fact that the room was being observed. He made great show of turning the key in the outer lock, sharing a grin with the footman, as he appeared to deposit it in his waistcoat pocket. Instead, he dropped it. The key landed in the concave he'd created between the toe of his boot and his trouser hem, clinking almost too faintly to hear as it tumbled the shorter distance to the floor. 

Phileas covered the sound and his quick kick of the key beneath the door and into the room by patting his open collar, where his tie had been. "Is there a possibility of having this replaced? I wanted to leave the lady something to remember me by until my return." 

The footman's quick grin - for that was a joke between men and could be acknowledged - faded back to servility almost immediately. "Yes, sir, although it won't be necessary for the ceremony itself. If you'll follow me, I'll take you to the changing room, where I'll assist you with your robes. We can arrange something afterward, I'm sure. Your coat, sir?" 

Phileas handed over his coat and fell into step beside the footman as they set off down the hall. The mention of robes brought to mind the altar of which Rebecca had spoken. He'd devised this plan and would see it through to its end . . . short of injuring anyone or taking a human life. Whitmore had never mentioned anything of that nature; he'd only suggested that Phileas was meant to be the club's enforcer and, if need be, assassin. 

The first step had been easily managed after accompanying a distant acquaintance to the club as a guest - to have been put up for membership by a yet even more distant acquaintance and the payment of a suitable subscription fee followed soon afterward. A wager and a challenge to a duel had brought him to Whitmore's notice within the first three days of his membership and the invitation to join the inner circle within a day of that. He had only to manage the additional fee and provide a documented instance of behavior that would label him as a suitable blackguard. The money had been accepted and his qualification verified and approved, according to Whitmore - there was only the matter of swearing to his malfeasance, signing the book, and being introduced to the other members. 

Rebecca's discovery in the cellars complicated matters significantly. If the ceremony required participating in or even witnessing something of that malevolent a nature . . . no, there was no question of following this thing through, as he'd intended. Phileas had every confidence he could extricate himself from such a tricky situation well before time, but if Rebecca, Passepartout, and Verne were here, there'd be no way to tell whether his actions might endanger them. He wouldn't feel free to do what needed to be done until he was certain they had all left the club, yet he knew he couldn't count on Rebecca obeying the instructions he'd given her. The likelihood of Rebecca doing something she felt contrary to her own estimation of the situation was less than remote. 

At the thought of Verne, he cast an eye along the footmen waiting on the second floor landing, but the writer wasn't present. 

The grand staircase was ahead - the direction they took there would determine everything. Phileas fought the urge to slow his steps, keeping pace with the footman. The man paused at the steps, bowed slightly, and then gestured upward, indicating that Phileas should proceed him. 

With an air of consummate dignity, Phileas Fogg, sans tie and jacket, ascended the stairs at a leisurely pace, unable to shake off the uneasy feeling that a condemned man might not feel so differently than he when climbing the steps to the gallows. 

**** 

End of Chapter 6 

**** 


	8. Chapter 8

**** 

Damnation and Hellfire - Chapter Seven 

It astounded Jules to discover that he'd accumulated over three pounds in tips in less than a half-hour's time. His immediate job, or so he'd been informed by a footman of his own age - William - who'd taken a position at the club only a few days before, was to take the key given to him by the head footman. With that in hand, he was to assist the club member and his companion to the correct room, unlock the door, hand over the key, take graciously whatever tip was offered, and return to the line until he should be assigned to escort another member. Something had also been said about surrendering a percentage of his tips to the head footman, but he hadn't caught all of that. This was certainly something he'd have to discuss with Passepartout. 

His feelings about the situation were mixed. Although the maids - or footmen, in at least one case - didn't seem unwilling to accompany club members to the private rooms to which he'd escorted them, he'd been passed by at least one other escort who carried a protesting woman over his shoulder and another whose burden seemed either completely drunk or insensate. Both times he'd stepped forward to intervene, and both times an older footman placed a hand on his shoulder and dragged him back into line. At the first instance he'd been told to, "Keep your mouth shut and do as you're told." The second occurrence had merited him no warning, but a stern glare. William had murmured something about "behaving" and "keeping your name off the list," but couldn't be encouraged to say more on the matter. 

There was, however, at least one other piece of advice from William that saved him no end of trouble. "If they ask yer, tell 'em yer otherwise engaged shortly but pra'haps later," his new friend had warned. It had made little sense until the first time he was approached by a club member who'd arrived without a companion on his arm. The man had walked the line of footmen, paused in front of Jules, and asked, "Young man, are you free?" 

Jules had barely stammered the phrase William had given him, unable to stop the blush that rose to his cheeks. The club member had smiled and caught his gloved hand. Pressing a coin into it, he'd whispered, "Perhaps later, then." 

He'd been stunned by the exchange and hadn't thought to be indignant until well after the man had wandered off with another footman. "Let's see?" asked William, prying at his fingers, and Jules had not only shown him the gold half crown, but had made a gift to him of it as well. He couldn't bring himself to add it to the other coins he'd collected in his waistcoat pocket and quickly learned to find a reason to leave the line of footmen at the first sign of an unaccompanied club member. 

Jules would have left the club at once, but he'd promised Rebecca and Passepartout he'd see what information he could gather for at least an hour. He settled for keeping an eye on the grandfather clock on the second floor landing, silently urging it to move just a little bit faster. The club might be unsavory, resembling what he suspected an elite brothel might be like, but he'd seen no sign of any criminal activity or the evil machinations that heralded the involvement of the League of Darkness. For Fogg to want to spend his time in a place like this was contrary to everything Jules knew about his friend. And yet - he was forced to remind himself - there were aspects to Fogg's nature that he might never understand. 

He was at the point of excusing himself for a call of nature and slipping out to the rendezvous at the rear of the kitchen, when he became aware of a disturbance on the lower level. Jules joined several of the other footmen at the stair railing, arriving just in time to hear the sound of applause as a man turned and bowed on the stairway, a woman slung over his shoulder. 

Recognizing Fogg wasn't difficult - Jules had seen him dressed earlier that evening - but it was the arrogance and ease of the bow that decided him. Nor could he help but determine Fogg's companion was Rebecca due to the color of her hair. His throat tight, he hurried to the desk and asked, "Key for the gentleman on the stairs?" 

The head footman eyed him for a long moment, then lifted a brass key off a peg from a board and handed it to Jules. Somehow the half crown in Jules' palm disappeared even as he received the key. 

Jules stood to one side as Fogg approached the desk. He drew in a breath, confirming that the woman in question was Rebecca. She recognized him as well, surreptitiously lifting a finger to her lips to caution him to silence. But Jules looked away, ignoring her instruction - he had a plan. 

"The name is 'Fogg'." 

"Here, sir," said Jules. He held the key to the room aloft between his gloved fingers and glared at Fogg. He hadn't known what condition his friend might be in, but he seemed none-the-worse for drink and quite sober. If anything, his eyes held annoyance and perhaps anger. 

"Carry on." 

The instructions were plain - with the other footmen around, Jules realized his options were limited. He led Fogg down the corridor, turned at the intersection, and passed three more rooms before stopping at the door indicated by the number incised upon the key. Not certain if there was anyone else around, he followed the procedure he'd used for the past hour by unlocking the door, pushing it open, then holding the key for Fogg to take from him. "Do you need--?" 

"No, thank you. I can handle the wench on my own." 

Something flew at him from Fogg's hand - in ducking, he missed his chance of slipping into the room before the door closed. He grabbed for the knob, but it refused to turn; Fogg had already placed the key in the lock on the opposite site of the door. 

"Merde!" Jules placed his ear against the door, but it was too solid to hear what was going on inside the room. He couldn't stand out there in the hall - it would attract attention. Perhaps the head footman would have another key that he could use? If he claimed Fogg had dropped something in the hall . . . ? 

His foot touched something as he shifted - the coin Fogg had thrown at him. Gritting his teeth, he bent down to retrieve it. 

"You! Come here." 

He straightened and saw the head footman and three junior footmen in the adjoining corridor. The head footman beckoned to him. Tucking the coin in his waistcoat pocket absently, Jules approached the man. 

"Come with me," said the head footman. 

Jules turned and gestured back toward the corridor he'd just left, "But the gentleman--?" 

"Can be handled by someone else. Come with me." 

The time to meet Rebecca and Passepartout at the kitchen door had passed. He knew where Rebecca was - she wasn't leaving immediately. And as angry as he might be at Fogg for any number of reasons, he was certain that Fogg wouldn't harm Rebecca. Rebecca herself had cautioned him to silence, so perhaps there was more to this than he knew? 

With a shrug, Jules fell in behind the other footmen. They went farther down the gas-lit hallway than he'd been before, climbed the backstairs to the third floor, and then another flight of stairs to the fourth. They paused at a formidable-looking door just beyond the top of the stairs - it was banded and fitted with iron. The footman took a ring of keys from his belt, placed one in the lock, and turned it. 

A full moon shone through the dormer - the only light in the room. The head footman paused inside the door, lit a candle, and then handed it to one of the junior footmen. Even as the footman began to light the candles in the four holders, Jules was handed two opened wine bottles. 

"Fill all the goblets," instructed the head footman. "And mind you, no spills!" 

The room took on definition as the candles were lit; a lectern stood at the center of the room and three sets of seats, in groups of four, resembling gothic wood choir stalls stood against the walls. The carved wooden seats were heavy and dark, so that their red velvet cushions and padding stood out in stark relief. Small stools or tables were set before each seat and it was there that Jules spotted the goblets he'd been instructed to fill - twelve, one for each of the seats, and then one more on the center lectern. 

Jules filled the goblet on the lectern first, overly conscious of the other footmen as they moved around the room. The slightest sound seemed to fill the enclosed space - the hiss of the candle wicks as they were set alight, the wine being poured into each goblet, and the whisper of a footman's whisk as he dusted the cushions on the seats. Shadows conflicted with one another even with the candles lit, creating deep pools of darkness in the corners beneath the low-hanging tie beams. 

He continued with the goblets near the door, noticing how the moonlight from the dormer window pooled around the lectern and small kneeler beside it. This was a place of secrets and darkness, as if light were forbidden. The head footman unlocked a compartment at the base of the lectern and removed a large book. This was set on a holder beside the lectern with no small amount of care. The silence persisted, only the whispers of their movements accompanying their actions. The junior footmen came and went on small errands - the clink of metal announced the arrival of small incense burners that were attached to the candles, an imperfection on the lectern was pointed out by the head footman and attended to with a cloth, the small tables were adjusted, seats were smoothed . . . . 

Having reached the last of the goblets, Jules realized that he was completely hidden in the corner shadow of the room. A glance upward confirmed that the tie beams were low enough to reach with a little effort. He set the two wine bottles and his shoes down in the corner and stood upon the arm of one of the choir stalls - he could always claim to have spotted a cobweb if seen. When there was no cry of protest, he grabbed hold of the beam, edged his way up the back of the heavy wood frame of the choir stall, and hauled himself upon the flat length of wood. The beam was wide enough for him to rest safely upon it, the black breeches and frock coat blending into the shadows. Pulling off his powdered wig, he rested it on the beam behind him, not wanting it to catch the light. 

The rafter support was directly before him, obscuring his view, but also providing cover from anyone casting a casual glance upward from the other side of the room. By tilting his head, he could see most of the room below from his ceiling perch. 

The head footman clapped his hands together sharply. Jules peered out from behind the support beam and saw there were only two junior footmen left in the room - they moved quickly toward the doorway at the head footman's wordless command - knowing that if his absence were to be discovered, now would be the time. 

Pausing at the doorway, the head footman turned to look back across the room. Jules held his breath and ducked behind the support beam, certain that he'd been spotted - but there was no call or cry of discovery. When he peered out again he saw the head footman brushing a spot on the lectern with his coat sleeve, frowning. The offending smudge having been removed, the servant glanced once more around the room, then nodded in satisfaction before leaving. 

Jules released his breath only after the door had closed behind the head footman. He was more than a little tempted to drop from his perch and investigate the book, but if the door opened there'd be no place for him to hide. That the room had been prepared with such care meant that something of import was going to happen, and it was likely to be just the sort of thing they'd come to the club to discover. He rested his head on his forearm and resigned himself to an indefinite wait. 

Thankfully, the sound of the door being opened occurred sooner rather than later. Jules leaned cautiously from cover to see hooded figures entering, clad in maroon robes and wearing matching satin eye masks and gloves. They filed in silently as if in some pre-determined order - he counted and found that eleven of the twelve spaces were filled, one left empty at the center before the lectern. The robed figures stood before their chairs. 

A twelfth man - also hooded, his robes and mask black - entered the room and stepped directly to the lectern. A wave of his hand signaled the others to assume their seats, the barest of whispers accompanying the movement of their robes. 

The door had been closed, the head footman standing beside it. The black robed figure pointed toward the door. "A new acolyte petitions to join us. Will you give him a hearing, brothers?" 

Jules caught hold of the beam, startled when the assembly tapped against the wood armrests, giving their assent. 

"Then let him enter." 

The footman bowed, opened the door and stepped aside. The man who entered wore the same maroon robes as the others, but his hood wasn't drawn over his head, his mask resting by its ties around his neck. Jules barely noticed the exit of the head footman, his attention centered utterly on the newcomer -- 

Phileas Fogg. 

"Have you accepted this acolyte's tithe, brothers?' asked the man at the lectern. 

Again the seated figures struck the wooden arms of their chairs, the sound echoing even through the beam on which Jules had positioned himself. 

"Very well." The leader held out a hand to Fogg. "Are you prepared to declare your worthiness to join this assembly?" 

"I am," said Fogg, the arrogant tilt of his head stating in no uncertain terms that his approval could be considered little more than a formality. When he was gestured toward the padded bench at the foot of the lectern, he knelt upon it. 

The figure in black lifted the leather-bound book that Jules had seen earlier from the holder and opened it to a marked place. He then held it before Fogg. "Announce your sins to your brethren." 

There was only the briefest pause before Fogg began to read. "On the fifteenth of March, 1859, I, Phileas Fogg, did engage one Lowell Carson of Manchester in multiple games of chance and through manipulation of the cards did fraudulently take fifteen thousand pounds in wager from him. When Carson accused me of cheating, I challenged him to a duel by pistols, to be satisfied at dawn the following morning. Carson's daughter - unmarried and a virgin - approached me that night to offer her apology on her father's behalf. When I would not accept, she offered me her body in discharge of the obligation. She surrendered herself to me without complaint. The following--" 

The assembly tapped their hands against the chair arms again, as if in applause, a muttered, "Hear, hear!" and "Well done!" adding to the dim. Fogg inclined his head as if in polite acceptance of the compliments. 

Jules lowered his own head on his arm and closed his eyes, a knot forming in the pit of his stomach at the recitation. Phileas Fogg was a man of honor - he was certain of it. Had anyone repeated those charges to him, he would have denied them vehemently. But to hear Fogg deliver the words in such a calm voice, to admit not only to cheating a man out of money and taking advantage of a woman, but then to accept congratulations for the act? 

It was beyond his comprehension. 

"Brothers!" 

Taking a breath, Jules forced himself to watch the proceedings. The figure in the black robe held up his gloved hand until quiet was restored, then gestured toward Fogg. "Proceed, Mr. Fogg." 

"The following dawn, I left Miss Carson abed to meet her father on the field of honor. We proceeded without seconds. My first shot took him through the heart - he was dead before he struck the ground. I then took leave to visit Mr. Carson's widow and brother. I accepted from them a settlement of his gambling debt, as well as a further thousand pounds in exchange for my testimony that no accusation had been made, no duel had been fought, and that Lowell Carson had died of heart failure in my presence. So I do swear." 

Again, the thumping applause and accolades. Jules swallowed hard, whispering, "No," against his clenched fist. True, Fogg _could_ seem irrational at times with his temper on hair trigger, as had happened in the townhouse this evening. There was also a place within his heart where Jules acknowledged that Fogg's service as an agent for his government must have led him to desperate acts of violence, but he felt he didn't have the right to sit judgment on the man for such things. As for what he'd just heard - Fogg could never do that. This was not the man he knew. 

"Are you prepared to sign your statement?" 

"I am." 

Fogg's certitude sent a shiver through Jules. He leaned out from his perch again to see that the glove had been removed from Fogg's left hand, which was being offered to the man at the lectern, palm up. The black-robed figure drew a small knife from his robes. Holding Fogg's hand steady, he slashed lightly across the pad of the thumb. 

Jules covered his mouth with his hands, muffling his gasp of surprise. The bleeding thumb was held over a small, black ceramic bowl. After a few seconds, the black-robed figure wrapped a strip of cloth bandage around Fogg's cut finger. The book was placed flat upon the lectern. The black-robed man handed Fogg a quill pen and stepped back, allowing him access to the book. 

The pen scratched against the paper, Fogg forced to dip into the bowl frequently to collect the blood that had pooled there. It could not have been the best of inks, for it took some time, and yet there was no cough or mutter among the membership. Finally, Fogg finished and laid the pen to rest atop the book. 

"Gentlemen," said the black-robed man, grabbing hold of Fogg's left hand and holding it in the air. "Raise your glasses to toast Phileas Fogg, reborn this night as Balberith, our Master of Arms, our sword of vengeance. To the Hellfire Club!" 

"The Hellfire Club!" came the ringing response, the members grabbing hold of the goblets he'd filled earlier, rising to their feet and toasting Fogg. Some took small sips, others drained the cups, but every man among them threw back his hood, slipped the mask from his face, and stepped forward to take Fogg's hand. 

Jules lay prone on the beam, listening to murmured introductions and words of congratulations with a faint heart. He pushed his brain to come up with some rational reason for Fogg to act in this manner, to say these things. This sort of a gathering would demand more proof than a mere sworn statement - the facts would have been verified. Which meant that what was said had been proven to be true. 

This could easily have been some plan in which Rebecca and the Secret Service was involved, but . . . no. Her discussions with him at the townhouse, in the cab, and even after they arrived here assured him that she knew nothing of this and that her concern was only for Fogg and his well being. 

The answer that he reached - Fogg had committed the acts he'd sworn to and had joined this group of his own will - was untenable. He needed more information. 

Jules also needed to move - his left foot had fallen asleep and a cramp was going to develop in that same leg if he didn't get a chance to stretch it soon. 

"Brothers, I think it's time for us to remove our robes and adjourn to the main salon for the general festivities. Please remember that we'll complete the initiation after midnight in the lower chambers - Brother Ressier, you _will_ be expected to be sober this time?" 

A cadence of rough laughter rang through the room. Jules heard the door open and remained where he was, grateful that he'd no longer be stranded in the air. He remembered the location of the room in which he'd last seen Rebecca - he'd try there, first. If he couldn't get her out, he'd collect Passepartout and together they might be able to figure out what-- 

". . . Certainly . . . ." 

Fogg's voice. 

Having to settle for doing little more than bending his knee to relieve the impending cramp, Jules again peered out from his hiding place. The other members were leaving, again pulling their hoods and masks into place as they exited the room. The man in black, however, had drawn Fogg, to one side - they were obviously waiting for the others to leave. Only after the footman had left, closing the door behind him, did the leader of the group speak. 

"You found . . . to keep you entertained this evening, I trust?" 

Fogg was smiling and turned away slightly. "I apologize for the scene in the salon--" 

"No apology necessary. Such things . . . cachet to the club - it's good . . . general membership." 

The men were on the other side of the room from him - as long as they faced the door, he couldn't hear them properly. Wrapping one arm around the far side of the beam, Jules leaned lower, hoping that he could pick up more of the conversation. Simultaneously, he inched his body further along the beam and closer to the support. He might be high enough so that he could make his way around it without being seen . . . . 

A sliver of wood slipped through his glove and tore into the skin of his left hand. It was an instinctive reaction to release the beam, but he was leaning too far over the other side for the grip of his right hand to compensate. Jules managed to reach up with his right hand long enough to change his position, so he dropped to the carpet feet first and sprawled on his back, instead of landing on his head. 

Before he could do more than scramble to his feet, they were on him. Fogg grabbed the back collar of his frock coat with his left hand, holding him in place. 

Swallowing, Jules stared at the man in the black robes, then back at Fogg. His friend's expression was cold, his eyes distant - he might easily have been looking at a stranger. "Fogg?" he asked, unable to keep the uncertainty from his voice. "What's going on?" 

The man in the black robes drew in a breath and frowned. "You know this man?" 

"Yes," said Fogg, the word cold with disdain. "Unfortunately, I do." 

The man again withdrew the small knife from his robes; Jules could see flecks of Fogg's blood remained on the blade. "It seems almost indecent to press you into service so quickly." He held out the knife to Fogg, handle first. "Consider this your first undertaking in your new position. Finish him." 

Fogg took the knife from the other man without any sign of hesitation. Jules ducked from his friend's grasp and tried to run, but Fogg went with the movement, tripping him and pushing his shoulder. It was a nightmare in slow motion, a sequence of desperate movements that ended up with him on the floor, his back against the flat side of the lectern and Fogg pinning his left shoulder against the wood. 

But Jules didn't really believe it was truly happening until he felt the cold, sharp edge of the blade against the skin of his throat. 

**** 

End of Chapter 7 

**** 


	9. Chapter 9

**** 

Damnation and Hellfire - Chapter Eight 

In Rebecca's vast and varied experiences with knots, she'd discovered silk was one of the easiest fabrics to untie once you managed to secure a section of the knot. The problem was getting that initial purchase on the fabric - silk tended to slide right through one's fingers, especially when they were attached to hands that were bound behind one's back and one was without one's usual toolkit. There was also the complication of Phileas having chosen to use a knot of his own devising which she'd always found particularly difficult to untie. Of course if he hadn't manhandled her, she might have had access to the knife she'd affixed below her shoulder blade, which had detached itself and disappeared somewhere between the first floor landing and this room. 

She'd been rather fond of that knife. 

Her expletives were quiet - still keeping in mind Phileas' comment that the room might be watched and her own experience with the spy holes in the maids' dressing room - but no less vituperative. Despite her intimate knowledge of the Fogg lineage, she augmented her struggles by making erroneous comments about the legitimacy of his birth, eventually progressing to derogatory personal remarks about his character, habits, and even bodily cleanliness, before she finally managed to get the silk tie undone and free herself. 

If he'd been there, she'd have wrung her cousin's neck the moment her hands were free. As it was, Rebecca seated herself on the bed and reassembled what was left of her costume as she reviewed the situation. 

Phileas had been reticent about the reason behind his presence at the club; certainly there was something he wished to accomplish there and he desired neither her assistance nor her interference. He'd also been particularly vehement about the fact that he wanted both Jules and Passepartout clear of the place as soon as possible. 

Removing her shoes and discarding her torn stockings with no regret - they itched horribly - Rebecca found herself forced to agree with Phileas on the latter point. If the others were waiting at the rendezvous, she'd send them on their way. She amended her plan as she slipped the shoes onto her bare feet . . . better to send them to the local station house for help. By the time they'd convinced the police to listen to their story and returned with the constabulary, she'd have found Phileas again and convinced him to leave the club. He could hardly assume that _she_ was going to abandon the premises without him? 

Nor, now that she thought about it, did she intend to leave without getting past that locked door in the basement room. She'd been an agent long enough to develop instincts regarding the ineffable. The hair that had risen at the back of her neck when she'd touched that door meant one thing - her job wasn't finished until she opened that lock and discovered what the club felt the need to keep behind three locked doors. 

But first there was the matter of the door to this room to consider; she'd distinctly heard the key turn in the outer lock. Rebecca's heart sank at the thought of her tools going to waste in the dressing room upstairs, but she would have to make do. 

She arose from the bed to examine the situation, only to find what she assumed to be the key lying on the floor about two paces from the door. Grinning as she picked it up, she let the weight of it rest on her hand for a moment, knowing that this was Phileas' doing. Perhaps she wouldn't be _quite_ so harsh when she let Phileas know later exactly how disturbed she was by his not answering her questions, treating her like baggage, and leaving her bound and disheveled in a locked room. 

Then again . . . . 

A quick listen at the door and a peep through the keyhole led her to suspect the hallway might be empty. Rebecca opened the door and peered out, hoping that if the room were watched at this point her escape was something that wouldn't arouse too much suspicion. No one had come to investigate when she'd untied herself, but one never knew about such things. 

Hiking up the torn neckline of her dress as high as possible and feeling even more exposed now that she'd lost her stockings, Rebecca adjusted her mask, held her head high and sauntered down the hall to the footmen's station. To her relief, she didn't see Jules there - she hoped it meant that he'd followed her instructions and headed for their rendezvous at the rear of the kitchen. With any luck he'd had sufficient sense to wait there. A glance at the clock told her that she was supposed to have met them three-quarters of an hour ago. 

It was becoming difficult to play the part of a servant, particularly after the looks and comments she received from the footmen and guests on the second floor landing and as she descended the stairway. A mumbled, "Otherwise engaged," and averting her eyes demurely helped her fend off two direct advances. One of the men pawed her dreadfully; it took all of her willpower not to twist his arm and send him back down the stairway on his posterior. She stored every pinch, every suggestive glance or gesture, every salacious whisper in her memory . . . she'd need them later to fuel her anger when she brought Phileas to task for this debacle, which was most assuredly his fault. 

The grand staircase provided an excellent view of the central hall and she spotted Passepartout again easily enough, even though his disguise made him but one wigged and masked footman among many. He was hovering - she'd seen him do it often enough at the townhouse and on the Aurora when Phileas was in a foul mood and couldn't bear to have anyone standing behind him, waiting to serve. Passepartout would carry a set of glasses to the sideboard and retrieve the decanter, dust another shelf, return the decanter and carry away the glasses . . . a series of repetitious movements that only created a pretense of accomplishment. He'd learned how to remain discreetly occupied in the background, ready to provide true service at the first whisper. It was a trick she thought she'd like to acquire from him, at a convenient moment. 

By nodding his head slightly, Passepartout indicated that he'd caught sight of her; as she watched, he made his way through the hall serving traffic and to the corner in which they'd conversed before. Eyes downcast in a deferential manner, Rebecca tried not to hurry her pace down the last few stairs and followed him. 

She'd barely turned toward him before Passepartout gingerly took the front neckline of her dress between two fingers - eyes averted - and attempted to pull the lace-edged cloth higher. "Miss Rebecca, you are losing your modesty." 

"I'm afraid that battle was lost long ago, Passepartout." She smiled reassuringly when he met her gaze, then caught hold of his hand. "Your fingers are ice-cold." 

"I was waiting." He nodded toward the kitchen - they were to meet outside the rear door. "It is getting very much colder outside." 

"Jules?" 

"He was not being there at the right time." 

"Nor was I - you have my apologies, I was . . . otherwise engaged with Phileas." Biting her lip, Rebecca directed her gaze upward, although she knew she couldn't see the second floor from their hiding place. "No sign of Jules at the footmen's station, either." 

"And Master Fogg is--?" 

Rebecca looked away, remembering that Passepartout had been present at the scene in the main salon. "Phileas isn't happy that we've interfered." 

"He is not saying how we could be helping him?" 

"That's something of an understatement." Rebecca met Passepartout's gaze again, her eyes searching his. "I can't pretend I'm not concerned. This is an evil place - there's a torture chamber behind that door in the wine cellar and I think it's been used recently." 

"Master Fogg is not knowing this," said Passepartout, his tone both defensive and defiant. "He would not be removing of his hat in such a place, if he knew before." 

"He didn't, but he does now." She gave him a wan smile. "I'm not entirely certain what to do. Phileas was adamant that you and Jules get out of here--" 

"I am thinking he was asking Miss Rebecca to be leaving, too?" said Passepartout softly. 

Ignoring the interruption, she continued, "--I can't say I disagree with him about that. But I'm not about to leave Phileas here, with so many questions unanswered. _And_ there's a locked door I couldn't get past in that torture chamber . . . ." Rebecca fixed her gaze on him. "Who among the staff would have the keys, Passepartout? The head footman?" 

Passepartout frowned and drummed his fingers along the flat base of the silver tray held between his hands as he pondered her inquiry. "Is not being a regular club, Miss Rebecca. I am thinking the head footman is in charge only of the second floor, where the gentlemen take their ladies - it was that way in the place in which I was once working. The head steward is perhaps the one?" His expression was uncertain. "But if you say it is an evil place . . . servants might not be trusted with such secrets." 

Her consideration of the perfectly odious head steward was momentarily forestalled by Passepartout's revelation. Rebecca stared at him, less shocked than curious. "Passepartout, you never mentioned having worked at an intimaterie." 

Passepartout shrugged with the true savoir faire she'd discovered inherent only in the French and the culturally sagacious. "I have had many differences in situation in my days." 

"You certainly have. One day we must sit down and discuss them all, but for the present--" she leaned past him, studying the ebb and flow of the hall traffic, "--I wonder how we might have a quiet word with the head steward?" 

His confident smile was most reassuring. "If you will be waiting in the wine cellar, Miss Rebecca, you will be seeing the head steward in two shakes of the sow's ear." 

"I should think that would be in sufficient good time - thank you, Passepartout." 

He gave her the briefest bow to acknowledge her approval, then placed the silver tray beneath his arm again and moved smartly into the hall area. After giving him at least a half-minute's lead, Rebecca followed his example, but made her destination the wine cellar door. 

Luck was with her - there was no sign of staff hovering around the stairway door leading to the wine cellar. Once Rebecca made her way downstairs, she found the room as empty as she had left it; only the matter of retrieving the key to that previously guarded door remained. She'd dropped it down her dress earlier and it had lodged, after her mishandling by Phileas, in the drawer fastenings at her lower back along with the key to the dressing room. The brass had warmed with exposure to her body temperature, so it was less of a shock to feel the metal shifting inside her clothing . . . she simply couldn't get access to it easily. 

"Bother." Standing in the wine cellar before the locked door that led to the torture chamber, Rebecca jumped up and down, her movements tentative as she balanced on her high heels. 

The key shifted, but not quite enough. 

Relieved that none of her friends were present to view this embarrassing method of key-retrieval, she jumped a few more times. Both keys eventually slipped from beneath the confines of her drawers and short skirt, clattering on the stone floor behind her. Rebecca tried the first and then the second key in the lock of the door, idly wondering if Phileas ever had such difficulties during his tenure as an agent. She did remember hearing of an unfortunate incident involving a formal frock coat, a cummerbund, an unsecured collar stud, a lapdog, and a pistol at an ambassador's ball. Phileas had remained silent on the subject despite her most intense inquiries; whenever pressed for details, he concluded the matter with a daunting glare and stalked away. 

The lock clicked up at the top of the steps. Rebecca left the door she'd just opened ajar, then backed away into the dark corner of the wine cellar, not wanting her presence revealed in the light shed by the candelabrum near the wine racks. It suddenly occurred to her that a weapon might be required to induce the steward, lulled into a false sense of security by Passepartout's escort, into a more cooperative frame of mind. She slipped out of her hiding place to retrieve the top of the wine bottle she'd broken earlier in the evening, but quickly returned to the shadows when footsteps and voices echoed in the stone stairwell. 

"--Shall _not_ put up with this sort of nonsense," declared the steward's voice. "You shall be dismissed, or worse, I promise you!" 

Rebecca drew in a breath at the steward's threat. It was far from an admission of guilt, but if this man had any knowledge of what went on in that other room, he'd prove invaluable to the authorities when they tried to sort out the matter. There were too many titles and too much money among the club members for the courts to easily punish those responsible for this outrage, unless there was a reliable witness to provide adequate testimony. A footman's evidence might be dismissed, but that of the head steward, a servant privy to many of his masters' secrets . . . yes, a much better alternative. This meant that she had to be careful not to inflict any permanent or fatal injury on the man. 

Not that she intended the head steward be made aware of his protected status . . . . 

When the steward spotted the open door and the key in the lock, she stepped out of the shadows directly into his path. He drew himself up sharply, nearly colliding with her, then studied her as if examining a virulent form of infestation. 

"Oh, it's you, girl? It would be, wouldn't it? From the moment I saw you, I knew you were trouble. Has the gentleman finished with you, then?" When she didn't answer but met his gaze squarely, the head steward glanced uneasily over his shoulder to see Passepartout standing behind him. "You're confederates in this, aren't you? Planning a theft? Blackmail? I can warn you that it won't wash - not here. You've chosen the wrong place to try these sorts of--" 

Rebecca cut off his indignant tirade by taking one step closer to him, wrapping her right fist in the cloth tie at his neck tightly enough to cut off his air, and holding the broken bottle near his left eye. " cease yammering," she informed him coldly, "or I'll be forced to take immediate measures to insure your silence." 

Due to either the close proximity of the jagged glass or the constriction of the tie at his throat, the head steward paled, gasping slightly. 

"Thank you." Tossing the bottle to one side, she then reached for the last cord concealed in her costume, which she handed to Passepartout. "If you would bind his hands, please?" 

"Yes, Miss Rebecca." 

She fixed the steward with an icy stare as Passepartout grabbed the man's wrists and bound them firmly - perhaps a little _too_ firmly, from the man's pained expression - behind the steward's back. Removing the tie from his neck with a quick tug, Rebecca then handed that to Passepartout as well. "Gag him, if you would." 

Momentarily abandoning her prisoner, Rebecca retrieved a candle from the holder on the stool. She turned toward them again just as Passepartout finished his work. The steward's eyes were wide and beads of sweat already dotted his forehead beneath the skewed wig. He managed a muffled protest when she nodded toward the door leading to the torture chamber. Candle held high, she told Passepartout, "Let's go, shall we?" 

The guard she'd assaulted earlier was still unconscious. Passepartout led the steward around the guard's body as Rebecca paused to relock the door from the inside - she had no wish to be discovered, at least not without some sort of warning. They traversed the small hallway and passed through the second doorway before finally entering the torture room. 

Having been in the place once before did not prevent the bile that rose in the back of Rebecca's throat at finding herself in the presence of those instruments of pain. Passepartout made a soft sound beneath his breath - she wasn't entirely certain what language he muttered, but guessed it to be a combination of tongues. The tone of it was clear enough, shaded with anger, disgust, and dismay. 

The head steward, however, uttered no sound. His lips were drawn tightly together around the gag and his eyes remained fixed on her, his fear palpable. 

Turning her back on him for a moment, Rebecca walked to the shelf and withdrew one of the leather cases. She pressed the end of the candle firmly down on the table and then asked, "Passepartout, would you retrieve his keys, please?" Centering her attention on the case, she opened it with a theatrical flourish, letting the candle flame gleam on the brilliantly sharp objects it contained. Only then did she turn to the steward and smile, an adamantine curl of her lips that she guessed would intimidate him. "Beautiful, aren't they? You'll tell Passepartout which of those keys opens that door." Rebecca nodded back to the door behind her. "For every key that doesn't fit, I shall test one of these knives on you. Are they really as sharp as they look?" 

It appeared for a moment the man was about to faint. He quickly turned his eyes to Passepartout, who was holding the steward's ring of keys fanned out across his palms. "Is this?" asked Passepartout, pushing aside one key after another, the steward indicating with a shake of his head each time that this or that key was not the one they sought. It was perhaps the thirteenth or fourteenth key that finally elicited an enthusiastic nod. Passepartout held it out to Rebecca with an elegant gesture. 

There was no risk that she knew in placing the wrong key in the lock, but Rebecca did not want to take the chance. It was down to a matter of saving time and also putting the man in the proper frame of mind - fear, as well as greed, no doubt motivated him to serve the people who would create such a place as this. She had to instill in him a fear of her greater than of his current masters, or he'd be of little use as a witness later. Key in hand, Rebecca held it before the steward's face. "You're certain this is the one?" 

The steward nodded emphatically. 

When she added, "You're willing to risk a finger on the choice?" the steward paled, but still nodded, perhaps a little less certainly. 

Hoping fervently that he was right - she didn't plan on following through with her threat if he was wrong and had instantly regretted making it - Rebecca fitted the key into the lock of the door. In the utter silence, she swore she could hear the hiss and sputter of the candlewick as the wax-fed flame burned behind her, light flickering with each vented draft that swept through the room. She assumed it was a draft that sent the occasional chill through her; it might simply have been the oppressive atmosphere. 

The key found no impediment, turning easily. Rebecca cast a hard look back at the steward, certain now that he was culpable for some significant part of this situation if the key was in his keeping. Returning her attention to the door, she took hold of the heavy metal handle and pulled it open. 

The effort required was not insignificant. She drew in a breath as she fought to widen the opening and found her nostrils assailed by a stench so noisome that it brought tears to her eyes. Her stomach flipped of its own accord as the wave of effluvium escaped and broke over her, drifting into the room beyond so that she heard even Passepartout's quiet exclamation of disgust and the steward's hindered muttering. 

The hallway behind the door was utterly dark, with no sense even of the grayest of shadows to indicate light was welcome. Rebecca returned to the table, picked up the candle, then gestured with her hand for Passepartout to follow her with their captive. 

The flickering candle flame revealed a row of cells passing into darkness on either side of a central walkway, heavy iron bars with a single lock on each door. The cells to her immediate left and right held an empty bench across the back wall, not long enough for a body to rest upon at full length, along with what looked to be a tattered and dirty wool blanket and a wooden slops bucket. 

The door of the second cell to her right was unlocked and ajar; the body of a woman was lying on the floor, the content of the overturned slops bucket beneath her - it proved to be the source of a good portion of the stench they'd experienced. Her eyes were open but sightless now; the exposed flesh bone-white and starting to bloat. Dried blood, burns, and lash-marks left red trails across her maimed flesh that were reminiscent of some hellishly patterned fabric, but she was clothed only in her death-wounds. Standing there, staring, Rebecca saw that one of the woman's hands had been severed at the wrist; it lay close to the door of the cell, as if tossed in as an afterthought. The hand fascinated her; after slipping her mask from her face she squatted down, candle held closer, feeling very much as if she were examining a grotesque museum exhibit. The finger pads were marked, roughened by labor and solvents. A kitchen maid, she suspected, perhaps not twenty years of age before her life was ended in agony, for the amusement of powerful men. 

"Miss Rebecca," said Passepartout, a catch in his voice, "for the sake of God--?" 

His words brought her out of her shocked reverie, but only partially. She stood and met his eyes for a moment, seeing them and yet seeing through them. This was what she'd feared to find in this place . . . and yet she couldn't see to the end of the room, as it was cloaked in darkness. 

There was still more to it. 

Feeling and emotion left her. Sorrow and empathy were slammed down hard inside a room within her soul, whose door and lock were as stalwart as the ones through which they'd entered this hell. But hatred . . . she could give free rein to her hatred. Hatred could live in her eyes, but not for Passepartout. 

For the steward. 

The man shrank back against Passepartout as Rebecca approached him - the valet grabbed the man's shoulders roughly and pushed him forward, then held him there. The tears in the head steward's eyes were not for this dead woman, but for himself. He turned his head from side to side, whimpering, shoulders shaking with his muffled sobs. She knew he would have fallen to his knees before her, pleading for his own life, if Passepartout wasn't holding him on his feet and yet she couldn't bring herself to address this villain directly. 

"Open the cell beside this one, and put him inside." Her words sounded odd to her ears, as if they'd come from a great distance and had been uttered by a stranger. "But take the blanket first. Passepartout, if you would cover her . . . ." 

The words would not finish. Rebecca looked away to her left, knowing that something inside her was on the verge of breaking - but she couldn't afford to indulge in that release of emotion yet. The keys jingled behind her and the steward continued to moan in fear as he was pushed roughly into a cell for safekeeping, as much from the threat at her hands as from his former masters. Passepartout muttered things beneath his breath and in a tone she'd never heard him use before - the darkness in it caused her to shiver. And then, a further sound, a plaintive whisper from the darkness beyond them-- 

"Please . . . ?" 

The candle nearly fell from her fingers as she turned, needing to find the source. Another step, then two . . . another body on her left, a young man. She hesitated just long enough to note the signs of death on the flesh, the lack of breath. 

A moan, forward and to her left. 

Rebecca's feet moved of their own volition, her will having lost all control of her movement. The woman in the cage to her immediate right was kneeling with her face against the bars, her body so still Rebecca thought her yet another soul passed beyond help . . . and then she blinked. Movement in the cage beyond that - a footman, bereft of all but his trousers, his chest bearing the marks of a whip, his eyes half-closed against the light of her candle. And to her left, two more cages containing two more women. 

None of them spoke. None reached beyond the bars for aid. They watched her with impossibly wide eyes, so few of which held any hope. And then there was one hand that passed the bars ahead, the word repeated, "Please . . . ?" 

The room ended at the stone wall beyond that cell. Rebecca grasped the woman's hand through the bars, then stretched her arm to light the several candles she discovered resting on stone outcroppings in that wall. The prisoners remained silent even when the illumination gave unaccustomed depth and dimension to their surroundings - having been kept in darkness, the light shocked them into fearful immobility. 

Back to the bars of the iron cage, the woman's hand still grasped in her own, Rebecca fought to ignore the touch of the woman's lips against the knuckles of her hand and studied the length of the room. There were fourteen cells in all, similarly appointed. Four were empty, two contained bodies, and the other eight each held a living, breathing human being. 

Eight. 

She had to get them out of here. She had to get them all out of here. 

Now. 

**** 

End of Chapter 8 

**** 


	10. Chapter 10

**** 

Damnation and Hellfire - Chapter Nine 

Jules was absolutely certain that he was a dead man. There was no mistaking the press of steel against the skin of his throat, the edge turned inward to slice cleanly. He stared into the eyes of Phileas Fogg and found he wasn't afraid or even outraged, just . . . baffled. If there was any anger, it was that he would never know why this had happened, why his friend had turned on him in this fashion. 

Hardly the most literate of last thoughts. 

And yet not a last thought, because the knife was drawn away. Fogg rocked back on his heels, the determined line of his lips curling into a smile as he uttered a single, soft word, "No." 

"No?" echoed the man in the black robes, more than a hint of vexation in his tone. 

At the removal of the knife from his throat, Jules had released the breath he'd been holding in a relieved gasp. Now he stared up at the man in the black robes, suspecting that his reprieve might very well be short-lived. 

Fogg rose to his feet. "Not this way." His tone was pleasant, as he handed the knife back to the other man, hilt first. "You've asked what I wanted from the club, Whitmore. I've decided. I want a duel." 

"A duel?" asked Whitmore. 

"Yes." Fogg lowered his eyes to meet Jules' gaze. "With him." 

There was no hint of friendship in that gaze, no explanation. Jules swallowed but held back the questions; it seemed pointless to ask when he knew they wouldn't be answered. Although being treated like an object instead of a person was beginning to irritate him. 

"He hardly seems the type," said Whitmore, tapping the blade of the dagger against his own cheek, studying Jules. 

"He's a foreigner of no consequence, a law student, a would-be writer who's been a millstone around my neck for the past few months. My cousin took a fancy to him and I hadn't the heart to turn him away because of it. This evening he tried to invite himself to dinner at my club and I turned him down. I've allowed him to sponge the occasional meal off me, but this really is the limit, don't you agree, Baron?" 

The words of a stranger. The eyes of a stranger. And - still dressed in the crimson ceremonial robes - the look of a stranger. 

Jules bit his lip, fought for control of the fury growing within his chest, and waited, watching the two discussing him as if conversing about a hunting dog - no, not worth even _that_ much . . . a lapdog - that was no longer of any use. He was tempted to make a break for the door, but knew that he'd have little chance of reaching it without being overtaken by these men, particularly since one was Fogg and the other an unknown quantity with a knife. 

"But a duel?" pressed Whitmore, watching Fogg again. He shook his head, obviously unconvinced. 

Fogg's gaze never wavered from Jules. "I've been teaching him to fence, saber and foil, to pass the time if nothing else. I'd like to see if he's learned anything, if I've been able to teach _him_," the word was almost spat in contempt, "anything useful. Call it nothing more than an exercise, a test of my methodology, if you wish. Come now, it's not all that much to ask. There are men here tonight who can handle any difficulties with the Queen's justice, if that becomes an issue. I'm in the mood for bit of exercise right now and I can't be bothered hauling him over to the Continent to avoid the restrictions on dueling. That seems an awful lot of effort for a bit of fun." 

Whitmore stared past Fogg, as if giving the request serious consideration for the first time. "Public or private?" 

"Oh, public, I should think. Put on something of a show for the membership - in the main salon, perhaps?" Only then did Fogg look to Whitmore, gesturing toward the knife. "Far more sportsmanlike than that, in any case. No problems with the body - as I said, a young Frenchman foolish enough to challenge me to a duel? What trouble _could_ there be?" 

"And if he won't fight--?" 

"I'll fight," said Jules angrily. He placed his knuckles to the floor on either side of his body, planning to lever himself back to a standing position, but Fogg placed the heel of his left boot against Jules' chest, pushing him down to the floor immediately. 

"He's not _stupid_," said Fogg sharply, his attention centering on Whitmore, as if Jules' declaration had never occurred. "It's either a duel, with sabers I think, or a knife across the throat. No one will believe a word he says, if he dares to say anything. He might even think he could beat me." 

Whitmore smiled. "I suppose there's little chance of that occurring." 

"Absolutely none whatsoever." Fogg raised a rakish eyebrow. "You _did_ say you'd supply anything I wanted. Well, here it is - I want to duel with him in the public room downstairs, tonight. I want to kill him before a crowd of my peers and I want to walk away from it without any legal entanglements. Is that so much to ask?" 

"I was prepared to offer you more. Much more." 

Jules again considered shifting Fogg's boot from his chest, the weight still pinning him to the floor, and attempting a run for it - but Whitmore gazed down at him again; the look in the man's eyes was positively chilling. If anything, it favored the predatory, the look Jules imagined a wolf might turn on a lesser member of the pack, one that must be culled from the group in a manner that wasn't entirely without entertainment value. He glared back, putting his force of will behind his stare. 

Whitmore seemed more amused than daunted at his response, his gaze becoming even more intense. "There's to be a ceremony at midnight in the lower chambers. Are you certain you wouldn't prefer to deal with the whelp then? I can promise you sole authority in the matter until such time as you're satisfied, or you allow your peers to finish the business. If he's of no real importance, as you say, and a foreigner, there'd be no difficulty in disposing of the remains . . . ." 

His life was being threatened. With what, specifically, Jules didn't know, but there was something in Whitmore's gaze that caused him to swallow hard, the threat assuming the shape and form of an indefinite horror in his mind. His defiance did not so much break, as ratchet down a notch until he could grasp the substance of this threat. 

"Must I make my request a _third_ time?" asked Fogg. There was an element of weary annoyance in his tone - he might have been reciting instructions that had been given a number of times before to an idiot servant. 

Whitmore's eyes shifted from Jules, narrowing as he gazed at Fogg. His tongue flicked across his lips as if he were trying to come to grips with the man's stubborn insistence. And then, he smiled. "No. If that's your foremost desire from us at the moment, the Hellfire Club shall be happy to oblige. Although," he gestured toward Jules, "he's hardly dressed for the occasion. To maintain even the semblance of propriety, he should resemble something other than a servant to have the challenge taken seriously - never mind the ill effects such a precedent might have on the staff. We already have some difficulty in that regard; knowing they might be challenged to fight for their lives by one of their betters . . . it would make filling positions with adequate candidates a daunting proposition in the future." 

Fogg nodded, as if in agreement. Removing his boot from Jules' chest, he reached down a hand and helped pull Jules to his feet in such a familiar fashion that Jules didn't think to resist. "A waistcoat and frock coat will hardly be necessary, more likely a hindrance," noted Fogg, placing one hand firmly on Jules' shoulder and keeping it there, despite efforts to shake off the hold. "A shirt and trousers will be sufficient. Boots, if you can find a pair in his size. I'll be wearing similar attire, of course." 

"I think we can manage." Whitmore glanced again at Jules, shook his head as if in disappointment, and walked to the door. He opened it, crooked his finger, and the head footman followed him into the room. "Take - um - what's his name?" Whitmore asked, his attention on Fogg. 

"Jules Verne," said Jules sharply, turning away from Fogg, but still watching him from the corner of his eye. The memory of the knife at his throat made him wary, despite the part of his soul still insisting that Fogg would never betray him in this manner. 

Whitmore waited for a second for Fogg's confirmation, then turned his attention to the footman again. "Take Mr. Verne to a spare room and help him change - he'll need a shirt and trousers, as well as boots. Be careful of the fit on the boots, as well; he's to fight a duel with Mr. Fogg." 

"Speaking of which--" Fogg turned Jules to face him. "You're to take advantage of every opening I give you during the fight. Do you hear me, you fool, _every_ advantage?" When Jules nodded and looked away, he added, "I want to give them a show. Fight well, give me back everything I've taught you, and I'll promise you a clean end. But if you try anything, or you refuse to fight, I'll hamstring you and then I'll hand you over to Baron Whitmore. Is that understood?" 

Jules turned his gaze back to Fogg, relenting for a moment, hoping to see some spark of recognition, some friendly feeling in the man's eyes. But there was nothing. "What happens if I win?" 

Fogg's smile softened around the edges. "To win, you'd have to kill me." 

"I assumed that." Jules looked toward Whitmore. "Give me a reason to win." 

Whitmore blinked in surprise, then laughed in honest amusement. "Fogg, I'm beginning to see your method in this madness. He's got a backbone." He met Jules' gaze with something akin to apology, the smile curling into faint regret. "I've nothing to offer you, Mr. Verne, except an easy death. After what you've seen, I can't allow you to leave the club alive." 

"Then I'll make him my heir," said Fogg. When Jules turned to look at him in astonishment, his friend's expression was serious, attention centered on Whitmore. "If he's good enough to kill me, he's good enough to take my place. I told you, Baron, he's far from stupid - there's genius in there." He raised a hand to tap the back of Jules' head, ignoring the answering scowl. "I'll deed him everything I own, including my membership in the inner circle. I'm sure he'll be able to provide proof of some adventure dishonorable enough to meet your qualifications, if killing me in front of the club membership isn't sufficient." 

Whitmore laughed again and walked toward them, nodding in approval. "Yes. Yes, I like the idea. I knew you enjoyed a wager, Fogg, but I'd no idea you'd be willing to risk everything on a whim. Quite admirable." Still grinning, he turned to Jules. "Is that sufficient reason for you? Shall we shake on it, gentlemen?" 

Jules turned and glared at Fogg, ignoring the hand offered to him. "I'd prefer it in writing." 

Fogg dropped the offered hand, clapping him on the back instead, surprising the hell out of him with the gesture as Fogg laughed aloud - the sound was too honest and familiar to bear hearing. "Brilliant idea. I wouldn't have it any other way." He gestured toward Jules, addressing his comment to Whitmore. "Didn't I tell you he wasn't stupid?" 

"This becomes more intriguing by the moment." The baron gestured the footman forward. "Escort Mr. Verne to a room, as I said. Keep a close eye on him. Mr. Fogg and I will see to the appropriate paperwork - we have more then a few men downstairs who could draft such a document quickly enough . . . if they're still sober." He turned toward Jules with an elaborate gesture. "If that meets with your approval, Mr. Verne?" 

Meeting the patronizing tone by squaring his shoulders and asserting what dignity he could muster - which proved difficult in his stocking feet and the footman's outfit - Jules nodded his assent. "Yes." 

"Then we'll begin the duel after you've approved the document. Au revoir." 

The footman placed a hand on Jules' upper arm, but he shook off the hold and - at the briefest nod from Whitmore - it wasn't attempted again. Jules bowed with more formality than necessary, seeing the amusement at his pretensions in the baron's eyes, gave an even briefer bow toward Fogg, then turned to accompany the footman. 

"One last thing," called Fogg. 

Jules turned to find Fogg walking toward him. Unaccountably, he felt relief flood through him. This was the moment when Fogg would throw off this nonsense, when they'd incapacitate Whitmore and the footman, then take to their heels, find Rebecca and Passepartout and quit this place. 

And yet Fogg's gaze remained as cold and distant as when he'd held the blade to Jules' throat. He stood before Jules, quite still, and their gazes locked. Out of the corner of his eye, Jules realized that Fogg was drawing the glove from his right hand. There was a flash of red in his vision, the calfskin glove slapping sharply across right side of his face. The sting in his cheeks from the slap of the glove was nothing compared to the sinking of his heart in his chest. 

"Now you've been _properly_ challenged." With a self-satisfied smiled, Fogg pointed down to Jules' feet, where the glove had been dropped. "You're supposed to pick it up." 

Jules turned away, but Fogg caught his arm, pulling him back. "Pick it up," he instructed darkly. 

He could feel the individual pressure of each of Fogg's fingers on his arm, even through the frock coat and his shirt. Despite his best intentions, he found himself meeting Fogg's eyes again. 

"Pick it up." 

His cheeks were burning. His first response was to tell Fogg to go to hell, but he bit back the words before they could leave his lips - he wasn't suicidal. When he had a sword in his hand, it would be different. 

Fogg released him. Jules bent to pick up the glove. Straightening, he threw it back at Fogg, who plucked it from the air with a deft movement, fingers closing around the crimson glove almost without thought. 

"Your life depends on killing me," said Fogg, "remember that." 

Fogg's voice was still neutral - there was no mockery in it, no condescension, just warning - but there was something in his eyes that held Jules' attention. Unable to discern meaning, he looked away. "I will." 

"Good." 

Fogg turned back to Whitmore, the movement an obvious dismissal. A light touch on his arm signaled Jules that it was time for him to go, but the footman released him almost immediately, his attitude deferential. He was a prisoner, but his status had risen from that of a servant. Or perhaps the respectful handling arose from older custom - they assumed that he was already a dead man? 

Whitmore's laughter and comments praising Fogg's 'style' was cut off sharply from Jules' hearing as the footman closed the door behind them. There were three other footmen in the hall - they sprang into action when the head footman snapped his fingers, standing to either side of Jules as if forming an honor guard. He could run, but could he outdistance them? There were too many of them - he'd never make the door. 

The footmen led him not down the main stairway, but the servants' stairs he'd taken earlier up to the fourth floor. The head footman stopped at the third floor and directed him to a room. The door was unlocked and the man stood to one side, waiting for him to enter. 

It looked similar in decoration to the others he'd seen many times this evening - the furniture was well appointed, appearing more like a guest bedroom in a gentleman's house than the holding cell he should have expected. 

"We'll be back momentarily with your clothing . . . Mr. Verne." 

He smiled at the pause - hearing the automatic 'sir' dropped in favor of his name; apparently even the head footman didn't know what to make of his change in status. There was no need to thank him; the door was closed and the key clicked in the lock. Jules wandered over to a floor-length mirror and shrugged out of the antiquated footman's coat, his tie following soon after. Tossing them to the bed, he walked closer to the mirror, spotting the red mark on his cheek from the slap of the glove. Jules touched the discolored skin lightly and winced, but found having a physical manifestation of his dilemma helped to focus his thoughts. 

Nothing made sense, from the scene in the townhouse this evening to this. Fogg was trying to frighten him, obviously, and had succeeded - the memory of that knife against his throat was still a little too easy to recall. In the past he'd seen Fogg at his worst and at his best, had been both his prey and his friend, and yet Jules could still find no rational explanation for what he'd experienced at Fogg's hands tonight. What was Fogg doing here, anyway? What could Fogg find at the Hellfire Club other than indulgence in moral and physical dissipation, which over time could lead to nothing less than self-destruction? 

Was that it? 

The thought chilled him. The duel had been a gambit to buy some time, that much was obvious - if Fogg had intended to kill him, he'd have died with that knife at his throat. But would he really have to fight, have to kill Fogg to save his own life? He had no delusions about his own abilities with a sword - he couldn't hope to match Fogg's experience or skill. His only chance was overconfidence on Fogg's part, a distraction, or a lucky thrust . . . . 

Raising his palms to cover his eyes, Jules shook his head, unable to believe that he was actually thinking about what it would take for him to beat Fogg in a duel, to kill his friend! 

Still, that indefinable look in Fogg's eyes haunted him. Determination? Resignation? A complete lack of interest in self-preservation, as if the loss of his life was not only a possible outcome, but the desired goal? The reminder that Jules' life depended on killing him - was that a warning or a request? Did Fogg expect Jules to take his life, assist in his suicide? 

Lowering his hands, Jules stared at his reflection in the mirror, and decided that a just God would never permit such a thing to happen. 

Unfortunately, at this moment, he wasn't entirely certain he believed in the existence of a just God. 

**** 

End of Chapter 9 

**** 


	11. Chapter 11

**** 

Damnation and Hellfire - Chapter Ten 

For a long time it seemed Passepartout's universe was focused on keys. There were many cells to open, many people trapped behind the locked bars. Eight, all servants who had been beaten or whipped or burned or had other things done to them, some of which left marks and some of which did not, and all of which it hurt his soul deeply to think about. 

One girl, a tiny maid whose shredded dress was visible through holes in her tattered blanket, cowered in fear when Passepartout had opened her cell door. She made herself small on the plank seat in the cell, curled into so still a ball that he did not know for certain whether her mind was still present or had passed beyond the pain of mortal flesh. When he touched a gentle hand to her matted hair, she shivered but wouldn't look at him. Then her arms suddenly encircled his waist and she pressed her face against his footman's waistcoat, sobbing. 

It had taken Miss Rebecca to free him from her grip and he had moved quickly to the other locks, knowing then not to enter any cell until all were opened. There was a limit to the time they might have to escape, but they didn't know what that might be. And they would escape - he would fight the devil himself before he would leave any of these souls in this place. 

The two newest prisoners, a maid and a footman, said they had only entered the cages that morning. Passepartout stood beside Miss Rebecca and listened as they told their stories - being lured to the wine cellar by the steward or another, being over-powered by others, being beaten and thrown into a cell, being beaten again if they made any complaint or any noise . . . . 

The maid wept as if her heart would break and the footman cried as well - all cried knowing no shame for their tears and Passepartout found his own cheeks to be wet; he removed his eye mask and so wiped away his own sorrow in that fashion. But Miss Rebecca did not cry. Her eyes seemed to sink further into her skull and grew fever-bright as she smiled and soothed and hugged these unfortunates, but she shed no tears. Passepartout knew that would be later, when this was over and she could be alone. 

And he knew, too, that he would seek her out, for she should not carry such a thing in silent sorrow - it would never leave her until it was shared. 

He stood beside Miss Rebecca in a cell - they had all gathered in that one place, for warmth as much as company - and leaned close to her. "We have only the wine - no food or waters to be giving them." 

"Best not to give them that," she answered, her tone clipped as when her mind was elsewhere. "It would put them to sleep and we need them as sharp as we can get them if we're to leave here. I don't suppose there's any hope of taking them upstairs, through the club?" 

Passepartout bit his lower lip, considered what he had seen of the layout, then sighed. "I am not thinking so, not without a hostage. And he," he nodded toward the bound and gagged steward, locked two cages away, "is being good for little more than steward pieces. I cannot think the men who do this thing would care if he is being alive or not." 

"He would not _be_ alive if he weren't needed to give evidence," said Rebecca sharply, her attention dropping to the men and women clustered at her feet and on the bench inside the tiny cage. 

The tone in her voice led Passepartout to accept her statement as gospel. He looked over at the steward again, deciding that he would not have had the heart to kill the man in cold blood. Should Miss Rebecca have been moved to do so . . . he wasn't certain that he would have tried his best to stop her, even at the peril of his own immortal soul. 

One of the maids - the tiny one with matted black hair - finally looked up from the floor. "They--" She swallowed, as if her mouth were dry, her eyes wide and a frightened-brown like a rabbit, as she gazed at Passepartout. "They push the - the - the bodies . . . ." The will seemed to leave her words, but as Passepartout leaned over and touched her hair with an encouraging smile, she pointed toward a metal square on the wall, well above where the candles sat on stone outcroppings. 

Passepartout left the cell first - Miss Rebecca being delayed by carefully placing her pointy-heeled shoes around people - and reached the wall. He found a latch at the bottom of the metal sheet and opened it, flipping it up along the line of hinges at the top. As Miss Rebecca joined him, he held up the rusted metal and she lifted a candle within the space it revealed. It ran the width of the wall with a slight incline down to them, a second metal flat covering the outer hole, which they could not reach. 

Passepartout dove into one of the vacant cells, retrieved an empty slop bucket, then turned it over beneath the metal flap, providing a stepping stool. On tiptoes, Miss Rebecca pushed her fingertips against the outer metal flap and it shifted - the fresh air was welcome, no matter how cold, and they smiled at one another. 

"Is old coal chute," said Passepartout. "Just above ground." 

"They would have to get the bodies out somehow - couldn't take them out through the upstairs. Dismember them here, sack the bits and throw them up the chute, toss them into a barrel or bin and then dispose of them in the Thames. How extraordinarily sanitary." 

There was no hurt in her voice, just the distanced tone he'd grown used to hearing from the Foggs in desperate situations. The more ironical their words and the more the desperate the circumstance, the more they were in need of tea. But there was no tea at hand. 

Passepartout placed his fingers lightly on the bare flesh of her arm, gave her a brief smile of apology for the familiarity, then gestured toward the people in the cell. "Is being the only way to be getting them out. And they are to be leaving in one pieces, because of you." 

A flicker of emotion appeared upon her face, that blank and business-like look threatening to crack. But she placed her hand over his and nodded, as if unable to speak for a moment while she looked away. "There - there'll be guards outside." 

"Is too cold," Passepartout assured her. "At the front and in the carriage house, yes, but not at the side - they will be warming their heels in the kitchen. And they will have brought in the dogs to the warmth. Dogs are more to them than these." 

His gesture toward the cell was understood - he could see it in the way she tightened her lips into a frown. "I'm half afraid to take them out into that weather, particularly the injured, but I see no choice. Perhaps between the two of us--" 

He shook his head. "No - I must be staying inside to help them through the chute. And then I must find Jules and Master Fogg." 

Her brow furrowed and she glared at him, but he knew that her anger was not focused at him, but herself - he could see in her face that she had not thought yet of what to do about their friends. "Surely _you_ would do better to take these people to safety?" 

"And you are being dressed properly to be folding into the crowd upstairs like a chameleon?" he challenged. 

Miss Rebecca blinked for a moment, then placed her hand demurely at the top of her dress. "I suppose I've lost too much of my costume to succeed in that." 

Passepartout bit his tongue, wanting to tell her that even when completely dressed, she'd been too conspicuous - he'd never seen any housemaid who had looked as magnificent as she did, even in _this_ place - but knew there were more important matters at hand. "I will be slipping in," he made a gesture, holding his hands flat and passing his left palm beneath his right, "finding them, and then slipping out again. I am not wanting to stay here." 

"At least we're agreed on that point." Miss Rebecca stared down the line of cells. "I suppose I shall have to take the steward with me." 

Her reluctance was evident in her tone, although she did nothing more visible than bite her lip, he could see again that she thought of the death of this man . . . it was in her eyes. "I am not thinking it would be best to leave him here, if he is needed for the courts. And if Master Fogg hears what we have found and the man is with us--?" 

Passepartout let his shrug carry his message and she gave him a faint smile in answer, confirming that she understood. "Do you think you'll be able to convince Phileas to leave?" 

He hesitated, having pondered that matter himself. Jules was easy to sway because Jules' mind worked in a logical way . . . most of the time. But Phileas Fogg could be the most stubborn of men and his temper was not easily thwarted. "If I am telling him of the people here," he said, "and Jules is with me, Master Fogg will leave with us because he will not trust us to be safe leaving without him." 

The words were said as much to convince himself as to convince her, the sentence ending on a forceful nod. Hearing it aloud gave it more truth. 

Miss Rebecca stared at him for a moment, digesting his sentence with more care than she gave to her morning toast, and then smiled. "You're right - that was uppermost on his mind, that we be out of here while he finishes his business. If you refuse to leave without him, he'll have no choice but to go with you. There are times, Passepartout, when I am very glad that you can be almost stubborn as Phileas." 

"Is being nice to be complimented in such fashion. Thank you, Miss Rebecca." He felt himself blush at the kindness of her words, but the heat faded from his cheeks as they turned to the problem at hand. 

"If I will be pushing from below and you will be pulling from above," he informed her, "we will be getting everyone outside." 

"Yes, but how will I manage them all?" 

Her strength was fading - obvious enough from where he stood. Miss Rebecca needed a brandy and hot soup, with warm bread. She also needed more help than he could provide. "The strong will be helping the weak," he informed her, taking her arm as they walked back to the cell. 

"If we could take the carriage house--" Miss Rebecca leaned against the cell door and stared down at the ragged souls in their care and said quiety, "No, they're not up to it. It's a pity there's no way to fetch help, but I'm hardly creditable in this state and they wouldn't take a second look at you. By the time our bona fides were confirmed and someone was moved enough to investigate, I'm afraid it would be all over here." 

"We will be getting the people outside," he promised her. "And then I will be getting Master Fogg and Jules to follow. You will not be far." 

"I certainly won't be," she agreed. "And that does ease my mind - thank you, Passepartout." Then rubbing her hands together, she stepped into the cell and said in a firm voice, "We're leaving now. It's going to be awfully cold outside, so grab any stitch you can, even those filthy blankets. You'll have to be quiet as mice, on the chance there might be guards outside. Those of you who aren't injured, I'll need you to take responsibility for someone else and help them along. Here's what we're going to do--" 

He watched their eyes as she talked. Miss Rebecca could speak well and clearly when she was set on a plan - that their were lives at stake and she was dressed as one of them did not hurt the matter. He could tell which ones had been in service before, for they treated her words as if she were the housekeeper, who was closer, louder, and obeyed faster than the voice of God in many households. To the others, her voice was their hope, their promise of freedom. 

Passepartout couldn't determine whether one or the other listened more attentively, but they all understood the instructions at the very end. He helped Miss Rebecca up through the chute first, finding himself in some difficulty as to where to place his hands as he assisted her. Knowing that she would not hold such familiarity against him in time of peril, he averted his eyes, placed his hand on the cotton seat of her drawers, and pushed upward with all of his might. Her only protest was a surprised, "My word!" before she hauled herself up the chute and disappeared on the other side of the far metal flap. 

After a moment, the flap flipped up and she nodded down at him. "Seems safe enough up here. Send them in pairs, first healthy and then the wounded." 

Having determined that only three of the eight would have real difficulty in the escape, Passepartout felt less guilt about leaving Miss Rebecca to deal with the matter on her own. They helped one another up the chute, the most desperate wrapped in a blanket and drawn up by Miss Rebecca and two of the men by hand. The strongest of the women remained until last, helping Passepartout in pushing the steward up through the slot - his hands still bound and mouth gagged. If the steward's cheek scraped against the rough stone wall part of the way, it did not give Passepartout much pause - his arm was still sore where the man had struck him with the flat of the metal tray earlier that evening. 

Only when the last woman had climbed up to safety did Passepartout breathe a sigh of relief. Miss Rebecca opened the flap at the top of the chute and smiled down at him. "Take care, Passepartout. And arm yourself before you return upstairs - you don't know what you'll face later." 

"I will be doing just that thing, Miss Rebecca." 

"And do consider knocking out Phileas if he won't cooperate. I'll take full responsibility for the order, I promise you." 

Passepartout hid his chuckle by touching his hand to his lips. "Yes, Miss Rebecca." 

She leaned her arm down the chute, her fingers extended, and he reached up to grasp her hand. "Be careful, Passepartout." "And you, Miss Rebecca." 

Their hands clasped together briefly, fingers intertwining. He released his hold on her, waited until she withdrew from the upper portion of the chute - the metal door shutting behind her - and then waited a moment or two more. There were whispers and small sounds of movement from above. Only when silence returned did he allow the lower metal flap to fall against the wall. 

Removing the steward's keys from his waistcoat pocket, Passepartout replaced the slop bucket in the cell and closed and locked each of the cell doors, then the door to the prison area. He'd removed his gloves earlier and now replaced them, as well as his mask, then chose several knives of various sizes from the leather boxes and secreted them about his person, guessing that he might be called upon to arm both Jules and Master Fogg. He locked each door as he passed through until he reached the wine cellar. Having locked that previously guarded door behind him, he lifted a bottle at random from the racks and made his way back to the first floor of the club. 

There were four floors and many, many rooms in this building - he turned first to the library, would follow that with the main salon, and on and on. The sooner he began his search for Master Fogg and Jules, the sooner they could leave this evil place, find Miss Rebecca, and help her with her charges. 

**** 

End of Chapter 10 

**** 


	12. Chapter 12

**** 

Damnation and Hellfire - Chapter Eleven 

Phileas leaned against the credenza in his shirtsleeves and braces. He had abandoned both his coat and waistcoat in the changing room before the initiation ceremony, and the robes and honors of the inner circle remained in the 'sacred chamber.' The drink in his hand was untouched; he raised it toward Baron Whitmore across the room as if in toast and took the slightest sip as a matter of form. 

This was Whitmore's study - quite an honor that he'd be invited into the room, having recently been admitted to the club membership and only achieved his seat as a member of the inner circle tonight. The room itself was more sedate and fashionable than he'd have guessed it might be, decorated with rustic hunting prints, green flocked wallpaper, and gilt edged molding. Quite tasteful, if one admired the gilt-French look that had been the rage of drawing rooms last season . . . which Phileas did not. 

If there was any object in the room that held his attention, it was the two pages of carefully penned script that he had drafted in the last hour. It had been verified by a member of the Queen's bench (not _quite_ in his cups) and witnessed by a well-placed peer (eager to return to the attentions of the women awaiting him in his private room, Whitmore had informed him), so that it was now a legal document both in the sight of Her Majesty and God, not necessarily in that order. In no uncertain terms, Jules Verne of Paris was the sole heir to all worldly wealth belonging to Mr. Phileas Fogg of London - with the exception of that which he held as trustee for his cousin's benefit - regardless of the manner of his passing, even if it occurred at the hands of the beneficiary. 

That last bit had taken some legal maneuvering and a good stiff whiskey down the throat of the Queen's attorney before it could be worked out to everyone's satisfaction. Whitmore had been quick to dismiss the matter as inconsequential, but Phileas had reminded him that Verne was a law student - the document had to be valid, even if it would never be executed. If there was any hint of charges being preferred against Phileas regarding the dueling statutes, the Queen's attorney would use it to prove Verne had challenged Phileas to the duel and that he'd been amenable to the terms, having something to gain from the matter. 

Laughing, the Baron had commended Phileas for his foresight, but Phileas hadn't joined him in amusement. Instead, he'd written out the document again, the Queen's attorney beside him, verifying the slight rewording of the draft to bring it within legal requirements and yet not lose the letters and words he'd intended Verne to see. 

The door opened and Verne stepped stiffly into the room - Phileas saw the shadow of the footman behind him before the door was closed. Whitmore walked toward Verne, smiling, but Verne turned his head to look at Phileas instead. 

Little versed in hiding his innermost thoughts, Verne's eyes burned with anger. Phileas wanted nothing more but to step forward, clasp his friend's hand, and assure him that all would be well, once it was done. He couldn't, for it would give away the game . . . and it would be a lie - he had no idea how this situation would fall. His eyes cold to Verne, expression closed, Phileas gestured toward the document lying on the desktop and then sipped again at his drink. 

"It's here," said Baron Whitmore, accompanying Verne to the desk, then indicating the chair before it. "As you requested, in writing, reviewed by a Queen's attorney - you'll recognize the name of the witness? Good. I suppose you'll want to read it?" 

"I've told you, Baron, he's a law student," said Phileas with a yawn, as if bored by the proceedings. When Verne seated himself, he moved up to stand behind the chair and placed a hand on the writer's shoulder. "We may be here for some time; he'll no doubt want to examine every paragraph, every word." He'd managed to avoid Verne's attempt to shake his hand from its perch, squeezing lightly as he reached 'paragraph' and 'word.' 

Verne stiffened beneath his touch, but the move seemed to escape Whitmore's attention - the writer had enough wherewithal to concentrate on picking up the two pages covered with Phileas' fine script. Phileas removed his hand and walked around the front of the desk, to the window at the far side of the study. "You might as well leave him to it," warned Phileas. "Don't forget that he's used to French law, such as it is." 

"A pity you didn't think to provide a translation," said Whitmore. 

"Yes, isn't it?" Phileas forced himself to meet the man's smile. Whitmore left Verne, retrieving his own drink from the credenza. They stood at the window in what a casual observer might think to be a companionable silence, which was broken only by the occasional rustle of paper behind them. 

Out of habit, Phileas reached for his watch to check the time, then realized he was no longer wearing his waistcoat. Whitmore seemed to have noticed the abortive move and pulled his own watch from his waistcoat, announcing, "Five minutes to eleven. Do you think you'll be done with your match by midnight, Fogg? That's normally the time we start the ceremonies in the lower chamber. I shouldn't want to disappoint the members of the inner circle." 

"An hour?" Phileas turned to look at Verne - still reading the document - and smiled grimly. "Well before then, certainly . . . but I've a mind not to finish it too quickly, if it's not an inconvenience." 

Baron Whitmore dismissed the spoken concern with a wave. "Just as long as you satisfy yourself, that's all that really matters." 

Phileas raised his glass in salute, but froze when he saw Verne drop the papers to the desk. The writer looked up at him with an expression no longer fraught with barely concealed fury. If anything, his skin had a greenish cast to it, as if he might be ill. 

"Is it all you require, Mr. Verne?" Whitmore approached the desk with a predatory step. "Has Fogg met your expectations?" 

"He's surpassed them," said Verne, his tone uneven, as if he were struggling to control his emotion. "There's more here than I'd imagined possible. And the . . . final paragraph?" He stared at Phileas, gaze searching. "That's what you intended from the start?" 

Phileas stalked to the desk and picked up the two pages of the document, raising it to eye level as if reviewing it. "I rather made it up as I went along. Hardly Shakespeare, but it should serve." He held out the pages to Verne, but released them from his fingers as the writer reached for them . . . they sailed across the table and Verne had to scramble to collect them, folding them in half before tucking them in the waistband of his trousers. Phileas grinned at Whitmore and asked, in rather a high tone, "As you say, Verne, not what you expected, but you find it acceptable?" 

"I don't have any choice in the matter." 

Phileas turned his head, fixing Verne with a stern gaze. "You're right - you don't." 

"Gentlemen - if I may use that term?" The baron laughed again, striding toward them. He placed his glass on the desk and caught Phileas' shoulder with his left arm, drawing him around to where Verne was standing. Once there, he placed his right around Verne's shoulder. "Gentlemen, save your hostility for the field of honor - which, by my order, should have been cleared by now and ready for your contest. Shall we take our places?" 

Phileas bowed in agreement, permitting himself a wry smile at Verne's hesitant nod. He walked to the door and opened it, gestured for the others to precede him with the politest of manners. Whitmore pushed Verne through first - returning him to the custody of the footmen waiting outside the room - then paused just beyond the doorframe, walking abreast of Phileas and on his right as they made their way down the third floor hall to the grand staircase. 

It was unusual seeing Verne so subdued - even when he was thoughtful, his expression was animated, eyes alight. Anger had returned to smolder in his gaze as he'd left the room and even now Verne's jaw was clenched shut, his neck muscles taut and bearing stiff as if he were fighting the urge to turn and confront Phileas. 

"You'll be the making of the Hellfire Club, Fogg," said Whitmore cheerily, clapping Phileas on the shoulder in a friendly manner. "This duel will be the talk of London society by tomorrow morning. Were I a more honorable man, I'd offer you a percentage of the subscription fees." 

"Were I a less honorable man, I'd take them." Phileas had removed the cuffs from his shirt - it was now a matter of rolling back his sleeves to his forearms, at the very least. He concentrated his attention on that as they descended the staircase, only distantly noting that they'd reached the second floor landing. 

Awareness of his location brought to mind Rebecca - he'd receive a hellish tongue-lashing from her for getting Verne into this scrape, once she heard of it. She'd never acknowledge it was her fault for bringing the writer here in the first place, of course. He raised his gaze to look for her, but there was no sign of her amidst the mob of footmen and guests crowding the corridor for a look at their procession. 

Someone called out "Jules!" Phileas turned to see a young footman receive a cuff on the side of the head as they passed, before the man was pulled back from the second floor balcony railing. 

Verne had looked back at the call as well, his lips partially open as if to answer it, eyes darkening when he saw the treatment the footman received at the hands of his superiors. His eyes caught Phileas' gaze briefly, but they were proceeding down the grand staircase to the lower floor and he was forced to look forward again, taking care with the wide steps so as not to fall. 

Phileas was startled, evaluating the import of his friend's glance - had Verne _truly_ understood what he'd been asked to do and would he do it? - when Baron Whitmore snapped his fingers. "My pardon, Fogg, I've forgotten the masks. Such an oversight - you'll be revealed to all the club now!" 

"Better to fight without, I should think," said Phileas dryly. Not inclined to hide his disbelief that the lack of masks was an 'oversight,' he met Whitmore's smile with a raised eyebrow, causing the latter to laugh. He then let his gaze take a circuit of the large entryway as they descended to the ground floor. There were footmen, maids, guests . . . Rebecca should have been easy to discern for the color of her hair, but she seemed not to be present. No sight of Passepartout, although in that costume and with his back turned he might be one of any number of footmen gathered in the hall. 

Verne and his escort of footman had already left the staircase and passed it, heading for the doors of the main salon. Phileas reached the bottom step, glanced over the railing at his side, and found himself staring into the face of his valet. Showing no sign that he'd recognized him, Phileas took in the pallid features and bright eyes - there'd been trouble, then. A few strands of brightly colored hair on that ridiculous white wig meant that Passepartout had been in contact with Rebecca. Specs of brownish red on Passepartout's collar caused his throat to tighten, for Passepartout showed no outward sign of injury, which might mean . . . .? 

Where in God's name was she? 

Phileas forced a smile, turned his glance away from Passepartout, and touched Baron Whitmore's shoulder slightly. "I should like to arrange a drink, I think . . . with your permission?" 

"I'll see to it," said the baron, crooking his finger in a gesture to draw a footman toward him. 

"Allow me - something special for our friend." He nodded toward the main salon, into which Verne had already disappeared. "If we can't give the condemned a last meal, we should at least provide the best brandy the house has to offer." 

"I _do_ like your style, Fogg," said Whitmore, with a chuckle. "The head steward should be able to supply you with--" 

"He is in the wine cellar, sir," said Passepartout quickly, stepping forward with a wine bottle in his hands. "I will tell him of what you are wanting." 

Whitmore stared at Passepartout for an instant, thrown by the phrasing of the offer, but seemed mollified by the footman's deferential demeanor. "Get Mr. Fogg whatever he needs." 

"Yes, sir." 

Passepartout offered a bow as the baron walked into the main salon, but Phileas grabbed his arm, knocking him momentarily off balance and dragging him to one side of the now busy staircase - the increased traffic resulting from word of the duel no doubt having spread throughout the club. "Rebecca?" he hissed. 

"Is unhurt. We have been rescuing peoples. Miss Rebecca has been taking them to safe places." 

"What sort of 'peoples' - people?" Phileas corrected himself absently. Having been assured the Rebecca was unharmed, he was more concerned with the crowd filling the main salon - he'd need room to maneuver in there if this were to work. But if the second floor were empty, so much the better for an escape up the main staircase when the time came . . . . 

"Hurt peoples. Tortured peoples." 

The words interrupted his train of thought, as did a second look at Passepartout's features - from his expression, his valet had been badly shaken. Rebecca's comments about a torture room in the basement being brought to mind, Phileas found it impossible to breathe properly for a long moment. His licked his lips and glanced to one side, needing to make certain they weren't overheard. 

Passepartout leaned closer, as if listening to his instructions. "What is happening with Jules? Why are those men--?" 

"We're to fight a duel," said Phileas sharply. Before Passepartout could manage a comment more than widening his eyes in panic, he added, "Bring back two glasses of water, a drop of brandy in each. Stay at my back during the fight. When a sword comes your way, grab it, try to make good and an exit for Verne. He'll head for the stairs." 

Passepartout nodded at the words. "So you will not _really_ be fightings a duel, then?" 

"Of _course_ we'll be fighting, you idiot - there's only so much pretense that will pass for true sport in front of a group like this. But I'll do my damnedest to stop us from killing each other. If Verne keeps his head--" Then Phileas grabbed Passepartout's shoulder. "Time? What's the time?" 

Passepartout fumbled for the watch in his footman's waistcoat - Phileas credited the man for thinking to keep it about him, God knows he'd left his own in the dressing room. "Is to be quarter past eleven." 

"You're to give me a sign at five minutes to midnight, precisely." Squeezing Passepartout's shoulder and giving him an encouraging, if taut, smile, he muttered, "Go." 

Passepartout turned, hesitated, then turned back. "Good luck, master." And then, as if realizing that his words could be misconstrued by the fates, sputtered, "Is not what--" 

"I won't kill Verne," Phileas promised, giving his shoulder a push, as if brushing the man out of his way. Only when Passepartout had passed him did he mutter, "Let's hope I can keep him from killing me." 

The main salon was not a salle, where fencing bouts could be observed with propriety, nor was it a zone d'honneur - despite Baron Whitmore's assertion to the contrary - where honor could be determined through fair combat with suitable air of gravity. 

Tables had been removed from the center of the room and the carpet rolled up to display a swept floor, the wooden planks even and shining with polish. The buffet table had also gone, along with the horticulturally draped nymphet, and Whitmore had taken care to remove the breakable items from the mantelpiece. Couches pushed to the wall were crammed with members in varying states of inebriation, some of whom jounced giggling maids on their knees or hosted them in their laps. 

The majority of the audience, however, stood around the edges of the room. Notes changed hands as wagers were placed and odds were called. Footmen and maids not squeezed into the small space at the far end of the room or hovering near the door as observers were delivering glasses or even entire bottles of wine to the club members as they waited for the contest to begin. 

A cheer arose as Phileas entered, giving him pause as he stepped over threshold and into the room - it took a moment before he realized the accolade was for him. He bowed with as much panache as he could manage, knowing that they expected bread and circuses. As he could count on Verne to deliver nothing more daring than bread in this endeavor, he would have to be solely responsible for the circus. It would, unfortunately, have to last at least three-quarters of an hour before his goal could be achieved. 

A footman stepped up to him carrying a leather fencing glove on a tray, the man behind him holding another tray upon which rested a saber. He would have felt more comfortable with Passepartout waiting on him, but that was impossible. Phileas nodded his thanks and pulled the glove onto his right hand, taking his time. He was aware the room has fallen to a low hush since that initial cheer - they were watching him. He fussed with the fingers, tugged at the wrist, smoothed the palm, barely raising his eyes to find the lie of the room. 

Baron Whitmore was at the far side, behind Verne. He was hovering there, as if ready to offer assistance as Verne finished donning his own glove. That the Baron's lips were moving gave Phileas pause - he couldn't determine what the baron was saying, but Verne had grown pale as he listened. And yet he had shaken his head to the negative, set his jaw again, and reached for the saber on the tray. 

Phileas finished with the glove and the first footman withdrew, replaced by the second. He took hold of the sword grip and then balanced the length of the blade in his hand. It was well made, matched to Verne's. There was not a blemish on the blade, from the forte to the foible, and the edge gleamed with a sharpness that promised precision. Holding it at an angle to the floor, he found the line of it was clean. Had he been fighting for his life, he could ask for no better weapon. 

This had been his choice of distraction from the start of the enterprise. Although he'd been readily prepared to fight another man - hopefully Whitmore - he'd settled himself upon the notion that it might be a death-duel. Verne had complicated matters. Not only did he now have to battle for his own life for nearly an hour's time, but he had to battle for Verne's as well. To wound would prove insufficient; should he incapacitate Verne and refuse to dispatch him promptly, Whitmore would have the writer taken to the lower chambers, Phileas would be forced to protest . . . and the game would be lost. The outcome would be the same if Verne showed too little enthusiasm, or refused to fight. 

Verne must fight to the best of his ability. It would be Phileas' job to provide the show, to dance Verne around the room, to frustrate his attacks with elegant parries, to riposte with grace and style, to entertain the crowd by humiliating his opponent. There needed to be such flair to the thing that the crowd would weary of the dance later rather than sooner, but he knew that they would eventually demand that blood be drawn. A cut, a slice, a gash . . . and even these wouldn't suffice for long. 

Midnight might have been an eternity away, yet he had delayed starting the match as long as possible. 

Then Passepartout appeared with the drinks on the tray. Phileas took his with the briefest of wordless acknowledgments, including that he should serve the second glass to Verne. The writer's eyes lit from within at the sight of Passepartout's approach, he seemed insensible of even taking the glass from the tray. Phileas cast him a stern look, reminding him to guard his expression, and Verne lowered his gaze as he picked up the glass. 

Baron Whitmore walked past Verne and into the center of the room, even as Passepartout withdrew. He nodded at Phileas, then raised a hand to command for silence. The casual talk of the spectators ended abruptly - even the maids ceased giggling, sensing the import of the moment. 

"Members, guests to the Hellfire Club, I welcome you to witness this affair of honor. Mr. Jules Verne of Paris," he indicated Verne with a wave of his right hand, eliciting a stamping of feet and a few catcalls of disapproval from the rowdier club members, "has challenged Mr. Phileas Fogg of London to a duel." 

Again, Phileas found himself the center of adulation. Feeling that any smile would seem forced, he bowed with a grim expression. A flower landed at his feet - catching sight of it as he straightened, he picked it up, then tossed it to one of the maids on the sidelines. She fumbled to catch it and gave him a pretty smile in response. Another cheer followed the incident. 

"At the request of the participants, the duel," announced Whitmore, again waving his hand for silence, "is to be to the _death_." 

There was a collective startled gasp from several members of the audience, as well as a few protests that were quickly quelled by elbow nudges and sharp looks. 

"Anyone who interferes with the duel or the duelists shall be expelled from the club immediately." Whitmore turned in place as he spoke, addressing all of those in attendance, and the few remaining dissenters fell to silence. Then Whitmore turned to Phileas. "Gentlemen?" 

Sword in his left and glass in his right, Phileas walked toward Verne, his glass raised. After a second's pause, Verne mirrored his movements. They clinked glasses when they met at the center of the floor. Phileas raised the glass to his lips, but refrained from drinking, even as Verne tipped back the glass and swallowed. Verne paused and glanced at Phileas as a few members of the audience tittered in amusement at his faux pas. Phileas smiled at Verne pleasantly, as if excusing the misstep, then threw the contents of the drink in Verne's face and stalked back to his previous position. 

The crowd roared their approval and Phileas took the moment to meet Passepartout's eyes. He touched the fingers of his right hand to his eye before switching the sword from his left, then swung the blade to tap himself slightly on the left shoulder - the innocent gesture was a brief reminder for Passepartout to watch his back. A widening of Passepartout's eyes provided sufficient warning - Phileas whirled and ducked, only to see Verne's glass hurl past him, smashing to the floor on his right and scattering liquid and glass fragments on the crowd there, much to their vocal dismay. 

The response was electric - a quiet murmur of approval that built to a roar until Verne bowed awkwardly. But when he rose, his shining eyes met Phileas' gaze in triumph. 

Phileas couldn't help but smile. He glanced past Verne to Whitmore, who had backed away from the central area and into a corner, and nodded. 

"Salute!" called Whitmore. 

Phileas positioned himself directly opposite Verne, raised the flat of the blade to his face, and then whisked it down and away. As with the toast, Verne again mirrored Phileas' movements. 

"En garde!" 

He took the attack to Verne, easily handling the parry, and then feinting a parry of Verne's riposte. Lunging, Phileas' attack took him past the writer - he smacked the back of Verne's trousers with the flat of his blade and then danced away to the merriment of the crowd, Whitmore's laughter loud among the others. 

The flush of red on Verne's face was due less to exertion than to shame, but he kept his head and didn't lunge at Phileas immediately. Their swords conversed in phrases, the steel resounding each time the blades clashed. They fell into sequence - attack, parry, riposte, parry, counter-riposte; the movements were fluid at the start, but grew more awkward toward the end of each clash as gravity worked against them. When Verne seemed hesitant to take the advantage, Phileas pressed him with a feint, changed a parry into an attack and put the writer immediately on the defensive. 

Corps-a-corps, flats of the sabers against one another with neither giving ground, they found themselves no more than an inch apart. "Fight!" he hissed at Verne. 

"I _am_!" 

They broke apart, each man turning, finding his ground again and choosing his stance. There was no sense of passage of time, seconds dragging into what felt like hours. Phileas would glance at Passepartout as he turned - his valet held his pocket watch open in his hand, shielding it with his coat - but the slight frown was hardly encouraging. 

Again he caught Verne's backside with his sword, then managed to trip him into a sprawl upon a couch - the audience threw the writer back onto the floor without any fanfare. Verne scrambled quickly to his feet, but Phileas swung his sword idly and watched the awkward display, wearing a mask of contempt. 

The audience was growing restless, wanting blood. Phileas dropped his guard as Verne attacked, then half-turned to his left - the blade of Verne's sword sliced through Phileas' shirt and the skin of his upper arm. He'd taken such hits in battle and practice - a sting at the initial thrust and then again at the withdrawal. Phileas gritted his teeth against releasing a half-muttered oath - setting himself in place to receive the wound did little to ease the burn of the thing or staunch the trickle of blood. The area fell numb after some seconds and he was just as glad the blow had been delivered with so little force, leaving him with the annoyance of a flesh wound. 

Verne paled at the sight of blood, withdrawing immediately, and a gasp echoed through the room, followed quickly by calls across the combat area as bets were changed, money moved from one combatant to the other. 

With a roar, Phileas charged his friend, knowing that Verne might falter after having injured him. Forced to protect himself, Verne raised his sword to parry the furious blow - but left his right leg and midsection undefended. Flipping his sword in his hand, Phileas struck him in the stomach with the saber grip, then swept his toe behind Verne's right knee, sending him off-balance and crashing back into the crowd behind him. 

Laughter resounded as Phileas walked away, breathing heavily. After six steps, he turned to find Verne struggling back on his feet even as he lunged forward to attack. Phileas waited, blade presented, and parried the blow. Riposte, parry, counter-riposte . . . and they were body-to-body again, swords raised between them, pressing the strength of their arms against one another, forte against forte, the lower end of the blades turned against one another. 

Phileas stepped back to retreat, but his left boot heel slipped out from beneath him. The saber blade jumped in its arc, by-passing his opponent's parry - continuing, it would have sliced across Verne's face if Phileas hadn't forced it back against the opposing saber, in the other direction. He fell heavily to his knee and gasped as Verne's blade sliced his right arm again, this cut diagonal to the first. 

_That_ hurt. 

Again, there was no real strength behind the blow; the momentum of the saber blade had brought the tip of the blade down his sleeve. He _knew_ it was a flesh wound but - by God! - it felt as if his arm had been laid open to the bone. There was no slight sting this time, just a trail of fire beneath the ruin of his shirtsleeve, the blood sticking it to his skin. But his fingers were still wrapped tightly around the grip of the sword. 

Verne paused, shocked, and failed to press the advantage. His sword hand on the floor, Phileas was close enough to slam the saber grip down onto Verne's right foot, then lunged upward with his blade, regaining his feet and using the moment to push himself forward. Verne barely parried in time and mostly by accident; he beat back Phileas' blade and Phileas gave way, planting the steps of his retreat much more carefully. They fell into the conversational sing-song of steel again - attack, parry, riposte, parry, counter-riposte . . . . 

For one blow of Verne's sword, Phileas' saber suddenly gave two, breaking time and changing the rhythm. The writer's attacks were direct - he couldn't feint with conviction and the change in tempo distracted his concentration. As Verne swung down, Phileas swung up, caught the side of Verne's blade, half-turned it as he beat it aside . . . and saw Verne's weight shift forward. 

The universe slowed to a pause between breaths - Phileas could see the beads of sweat propelled backward by Verne's forward motion. To make any evasive movement would be to impale Jules Verne, but to stay his hand and his sword meant being run-through at the worst or a disarming, Verne knocking the blade from his hand. 

How much time had passed? Could Verne take his blade without running him through? 

Blood pounded in his ears for that second, a loud thudding sound that drowned out the cries of the crowd as they realized what was about to happen. They were rising to their feet. 

There was no choice - he wasn't about to kill his friend. He could only trust to Verne's recently acquired skills with a sword and to luck. 

Phileas stood his ground, fingers releasing the grip on his saber as Verne's blade dropped inside his guard, caught the grip, and flicked upward instead of forward. Feeling the saber leave his hand, Phileas was finally free to move, falling to his left knee again and rolling onto his back. The sound of his freed saber clattering to the floor was of no consequence. Phileas didn't even feel the back of his head strike the wood beneath him. His gaze strained upward and he caught sight of the watch held in Passepartout's hand, just beyond him. Even upside down, he could tell they were no more than five minutes earlier than they might have been had things gone perfectly. It was time to finish this. 

Verne knew what to do - did he dare to do it? 

**** 

Continued in Part 13 

**** 


	13. Chapter 13

**** 

Damnation and Hellfire - Chapter Eleven (continued) 

Sprawled defenseless at Verne's feet, Phileas was now aware of the silence that had fallen - he could make no offensive movement from this position, Verne having managed to stay beyond the sweep or striking range of any of his limbs. The writer held the sword by the pommel like a knife, point downward. His hand drew up in an abortive gesture, but he checked himself before continuing into the downward arc that would have thrust it into Phileas' chest. Their gazes locked. 

"Finish him!" called Baron Whitmore. 

Phileas didn't dare look away. He saw Verne's lips move, counting. On three, he rolled to his right, directly onto his sliced arm, only to hear the tip of the sword thud heavily into the floor just behind his back, where his heart would have been or his lung if he'd gone in the other direction. 

There was an instant of silence, then a roar from the crowd. Even as Phileas scrambled to his knees, he saw Passepartout moving forward to retrieve Phileas' sword, which was lying on the floor behind Verne. Holding the blade awkwardly, the valet swished it around him, clearing a path to the doorway as he pretended to fumble with it. 

The momentary distraction served its purpose. Verne took to his heels, dashing out of the room through the path Passepartout had cleared for him. Grabbing hold of the grip of Verne's sword, Phileas pulled it out of the floor with a great roar, calling, "Nobody touch him! He's mine!" as he headed in pursuit. 

The footmen who'd flooded out of the doorway in pursuit of Verne and Passepartout tumbled aside to allow Phileas through - it mattered little to him whether it was because he was an honored club member or a bleeding madman wildly swinging a saber in his hand. By the time he made the first step of the grand staircase, both Passepartout and Jules had already reached the second floor. He dashed up the steps as quickly as he could despite their excess depth, which proved an impediment to an even stride. 

The sword had been passed from Passepartout to Verne, whom Phileas saw continue past the landing and up the steps to the third floor on the mission he'd been assigned. Passepartout was using a wicked-looking blade - God only knew from where he'd drawn it - to fend off the half-hearted interest of three footmen on the second floor landing, effectively covering Verne's back and preventing the footmen from following. 

As he drew closer, more cognizant of the sounds of pursuit on the steps behind him, Phileas realized that only two of the footmen on the second floor landing had proven to be troublesome - one of the three had turned against his fellow and knocked him to the ground. Midway up the steps, Phileas turned and swung the sword in a low, wild half-arc. The footmen nearest to him either stopped dead still and were knocked forward by the press behind them, or fell back amongst their fellows and began a domino-like cascade down the steps. Confusion having been established, Phileas again headed up the stairs. 

He arrived on the second floor landing in time to see Passepartout pull the wig down over his opponent's eyes. Phileas couldn't help but wince, watching as his valet then brought the man's head down to meet his upraised knee. As that footman fell to the ground, another rose to his feet after having vanquished their other foe, and approached them. "Are you friends of Jules?" he demanded, his fists raised warily, wig and mask askew. 

"I'm thankful to say that we are," said Phileas, in a light tone. "I shouldn't think we'd want to fight you in addition to those scoundrels down there." He turned to Passepartout, then nodded slightly at the staircase behind them. "Amazing, isn't it? He finds allies everywhere he goes." 

Passepartout grinned and dropped the mask from his face. "Master Jules is a very friend-like fellow." 

"Be that as it may, he'd better be damned quick about his business or he'll have fewer friends for certain," noted Phileas. He glanced toward the staircase Verne had taken to the third floor with a grim expression and had little reason to change his state of mind when he turned his attention to the staircase below them; footmen were arrayed across the width of the steps. It was like watching an on-coming army of noblemen from the prior century. He found some comfort in the fact they appeared to have no real weapons, save the occasional kitchen knife and candlestick, but he and his companions were hardly well-armed themselves; he holding a saber, Passepartout with a knife, and their new confederate a . . . table? 

Passepartout and Verne's friend were quick-stepping the table from the head footman's station to the edge of the stairs. They tipped it over onto the approaching footmen, again causing no small amount of stumbling and retreat. 

Following their example, Phileas retrieved the padded chair and tossed it into the fray, then turned to the others. "I think a retreat to the third floor is in order, gentlemen - that staircase is narrow and more defensible. I don't think I've had the pleasure--?" He paused, holding out his hand to Verne's friend, prompting the young man for a name. 

"William, sir." 

"William." Phileas shook his hand, then released him and gestured them upward. They didn't stop until they reached the third floor landing, but from this vantage point they could see the crowd of footmen surging up the staircase below them. 

Passepartout turned to William, producing yet another knife from his waistcoat, much to Phileas' surprise. "You will be wanting to have a weapon, William?" 

"No thank you, sir." The footman grinned at him and raised his fists again. "I've got all the weapons I need right here, I fancy." 

"I very much like the cut of the jibber of Jules' friends, master," noted Passepartout, as the first of the footmen reached them. He swung the two knives in an arc and the footmen below him backed down a step or two. "We are to be following Jules?" 

Phileas was unable to answer immediately, parrying a candlestick with a swing of his saber, then he placed his boot in his assailant's midsection and sent him sailing into the man behind him. "Not just yet, Passepartout. Not just--" he kicked at the chin of another footman, knocking him backward, "yet." 

There could have been no more than thirty footmen on the stairs actively engaged in combat, with the occasional club member among them. The maids had retreated and the majority of the members of the Hellfire Club were heading for the front doors - they looked most like a swarm of shiny black beetles, grabbing whatever cloaks and hats came to hand as they made their escape. 

Phileas took a breath between opponents and realized that Passepartout was fighting two men simultaneously, his knives against theirs. Annoyed by the impropriety of it, he swung the flat of his saber against the nearest man's chest, knocking him back down the steps and away from Passepartout. William seemed to be holding his own against the unarmed attackers on the left side of the fray, having planted his back against the post at the edge of the landing and fending off the onslaught with what appeared to be an impressive right hook. 

Having been in such situations before, Phileas did what came naturally - swung at anything that looked like an enemy, fought like hell to retain the position of advantage, and scanned the area for sign of friend or further foe. He'd not seen anything of Baron Whitmore since he'd raced from the main salon after Verne and Passepartout, which was something of a concern - he'd expected the exalted leader of the inner circle of the Hellfire Club to be the first one after his hide. In addition, his right arm ached like the very devil; blood from the slashes Verne had inflicted upon him during their duel was trickling down the inside of his sleeve. If not for the grip of the glove he was wearing, he would have lost hold of the sword long before now. 

That's when he realized, somewhat belatedly, that the swarm of club members heading for the doors had slowed, stopped, and changed direction. It took some few minutes for the press forward and the push backward to come to grips with one another, but eventually he heard the high-pitched 'thweep' of police whistles; sable-collared coats and top hats were quickly outnumbered by a rush of blue. Some of the officers began to make their way into the fray on the staircase, increasing the pressure at Phileas' end until the press from below was eased as servants abandoned the assault on the third floor landing and took the only escape route open to them - the second floor. 

"Look master!" called Passepartout, pointing down the steps with his knives as the last of their assailants turned tail and headed for the second floor. "It is being like the charge of the light horses." 

"Far more effective, I should hope." With a sigh, Phileas leaned his right side against the stairwell, the banister beneath his right shoulder taking most of his weight. But he didn't dare rest, not if he was going to keep the vantage point he needed. Passepartout was beside him almost instantly, catching hold of his left shoulder and supporting him. 

"You are needing that wound dressed, master," he said quietly. "After so much bleeding, you should not be standing." 

"Later," promised Phileas, "after this is done." He glanced over at William - the footman had lost his coat at some point. His waistcoat torn open, he sat with his back to the stair post, his chin on his chest and his eyes closed, breathing heavily. "Keep him with you, Passepartout - I don't want him to get herded off with this lot." 

"Yes, master. But it is being finished. The police are taking away the bad peoples. And there is Sir Jonathan--" 

"Chatsworth? Where?" Phileas straightened, fought back a groan as he bumped against the banister by gritting his teeth, and scanned the club lobby. 

Passepartout pointed to one side of the door. "There!" 

Beaver hat, fur collar, expression like a man who'd sucked on a lemon for a moment longer than any sensible man would - with relief Phileas confirmed to his own satisfaction that Chatsworth had arrived. "Would you happen to have the time, Passepartout?" 

Without releasing the hold on his arm, Passepartout reached his free hand into his waistcoat and withdrew his watch. He flipped it open. "Is half past midnight." 

"That man will be late for his own funeral . . . or mine," said Phileas, unable to shake the anger from his tone. "Get his attention for me if you would be so kind, Passepartout? I'm not inclined to extend this arm more than necessary at the moment, particularly for Chatsworth's benefit." 

Passepartout cast him a concerned look, then stepped away from Phileas. He raised his hand, waving it frantically. "Sir Jonathan? Sir Jonathan Chatsworth! We are being here!" 

It was with some relief that Phileas saw Chatsworth start at the call, hearing it even among the general din of a police escapade that resembled a raid on a high-class bordello. The spy master glanced upward, his frown deepening as he spotted them, then gestured frantically for them to come down the stairs. 

Phileas shook his head - the man seemed to have a dread of what he considered unnecessary exercise, complicated by an overblown ego that required those whom he considered his subordinates to wait at _his_ pleasure. And if Phileas Fogg knew himself to be anything, it was certainly _not_ a man who served at the pleasure of Sir Jonathan Chatsworth. 

Besides . . . there was one thing more yet to do. And Passepartout's call to Chatsworth had alerted the police to their presence - several members of the London constabulary were ascending the stairs with menacing expressions. 

"Passepartout?" Again, his valet was beneath his left arm, supporting his weight. With care, Phileas removed his arm from Passepartout's keeping and said firmly, "I've got to find Verne before Chatsworth reaches me. If you could prevent her Majesty's peace from following until Chatsworth finally gets it into his muzzy skull that I am _not_ joining him downstairs, I would be exceptionally grateful." 

Their gazes locked - the demand that Phileas should be accompanied was born and died in Passepartout's eyes before it was even spoken. The valet nodded his understanding. "Yes, master. I will be keeping these policemen men most busy." 

"Thank you. A quarter of an hour should be more than sufficient, if Chatsworth hasn't dragged his carcass up here by then." With a smile, Phileas nodded toward the glint of steel lying on the landing. "And I should move those knives further down the hall, for safety's sake. Police seem to take a dim view of armed opponents - I should be very put out if required to train a new valet after this adventure." 

His caution against unreasonable risks on his valet's part was unstated, yet perfectly understood; Passepartout's answering grin informed him that his orders would be obeyed in spirit, if not to the letter. With an appreciative tap of his left hand on his valet's shoulder, Phileas turned, took a deep breath, and summoned up the last of his reserves to finally attend to the business that had brought him here in the first place. 

**** 

End of Chapter 11 

**** 


	14. Chapter 14

**** 

Damnation and Hellfire - Chapter Twelve 

His lungs felt as if they were on fire as Jules dashed up the final flight of stairs to the fourth floor. After the duel and his race up the staircase, he couldn't help but stop at the top landing, slamming the saber tip down into the carpet as he leaned on the grip and gasped for air. The stitch in his side began to ease, his legs wobbled, and he would have been quite content to throw himself onto the floor and not move for at least a week. 

If only he had that luxury! With a groan, he straightened and pushed himself into a light run, searching for the door of the ceremony chamber. He dared not stop to breathe or even to think, if he were to carry out Fogg's instructions in time. 

When he'd demanded Fogg's bequest be given to him in writing, it was an insult uttered in a fit of pique. That his request had been honored was his first surprise. The second was Fogg's hand upon his shoulder as Jules ran his eye down the page and the slight squeeze as Fogg said 'paragraph' and 'word.' He'd almost given away the game then, barely able to swallow his startled gasp or hide his excitement - the document concealed a code. Nothing fancy or unbreakable - how the Queen's attorney hadn't spotted it was beyond him and Baron Whitmore seemed clever enough, yet Fogg had given neither of those men reason to doubt him or to look for such duplicity. 

The last word of each paragraph contained the key to that paragraph's true meaning. The messages were brief - a warning to fight as if his both their lives depended on it, to let Fogg do as he would throughout the duel, to ignore any blood drawn, to take Fogg's sword on cue and when he was down, to set up a death-blow . . . . 

He'd mistaken the cue, Fogg hadn't been ready for him to take his sword and he'd nearly ended up impaling himself; a cold sweat broke out over him even now at the thought of it as Jules hurried down the corridor, searching for the door. He'd gone after Fogg's sword too soon. And, having botched that, to have to stand with that saber held above Fogg and thrust down, not knowing how Fogg planned to evade the blow--? 

Damn the man! 

Jules recognized the hallway, realized the door he sought was the last on his right, and hurried his steps. Reaching the chamber door, he tugged on the handle, almost crying in relief when it opened beneath his grasp - thank God it was unlocked! He slipped inside the room, closed the door behind himself, then paused. 

The candles had been extinguished, for safety's sake he supposed if for no other reason, but moonlight flooded in through the dormer window above him. Silent and dark, smelling faintly of incense, the oppressive atmosphere of the room made him shiver. Jules stumbled forward to the lectern, then hesitated, looking around wildly. 

The Book of Sin was gone. 

His mind went blank for a moment and he groaned aloud in frustration. Fogg's instructions had assumed the book would be where he had last seen it, on the lectern. But if the head footman had returned with the others to remove the wine goblets and snuff out the candles . . . perhaps the book had been placed back in the locked cabinet inside the lectern? 

Jules tossed aside the saber and ripped off the fencing glove, then squatted to examine the lock. He'd seen the head footman use a key to unlock that compartment, but had no time for such niceties now. Slapping the side of the lectern with the flat of his hand in frustration, he then rose to his feet and leaned against his weight full against it. 

It shifted. 

Planting his feet against the carpet, he pushed with all his might to topple the lectern. It tilted away from the floor, just a little at first, but as he bent his knees and doubled his efforts he felt it begin to sway forward. With a last, Herculean effort, Jules grunted and heaved the thing, then jumped back in alarm as it crashed to the floor within the small rectangle of moonlight from the window above him. 

The lectern hadn't shattered completely - a tug on the locked cabinet at the base showed it still to be intact. Jules glanced around, caught sight of an iron candle stand, and grabbed hold of it with two hands, knocking away the candles that hadn't fallen when he'd lifted it from its upright position. It made a perfect pry bar. The fleur-de-lis decorative piece at the top fitted neatly into the gap between the edge of the door and the frame. He tilted the candle stand like a lever, using the flat of his boot for leverage as he pulled the bar downward, attempting to pry the cabinet door upward and away from the lock. 

The wood around the lock gave suddenly and he fell, the heavy iron candle holder giving his left shoulder a glancing blow before he could scramble out from beneath it. Jules crawled quickly to the fallen lectern, shoved aside the cabinet door, and then reached inside for the book. 

For one who knew books and loved them, it was a beautiful thing to hold, the leather softer than an infant's skin. Jules raised one hand to brush across the incised cover, but stopped abruptly, the breath catching in his throat - it was as if the runes inscribed there held an magnetic charge, drawing his hand to them. Even its color seemed too bold; the moonlight tinted the other objects around him in gray, blue, or silver hues, but the cover of the book retained the solid red and brown tones he'd seen in candlelight, the color of dried blood. 

He shuddered, nearly dropped the book . . . and then shook off the sense of unease that had claimed him as reason asserted itself - it was only a book, after all. He was to guard it with his life until Fogg caught up with him. Dismissing his unease as foolishness, Jules hugged it to his chest. 

That's when he heard a 'click' from somewhere in the darkness. 

Jules froze. Realizing that he was unarmed, he turned his head slowly, trying to remember where he'd thrown the saber. 

"The sword's over here, Mr. Verne," said Baron Whitmore's voice. "Near the door." 

Illumination provided by the moonlight diffused outward from the square in which Jules stood - he could barely distinguish the darker black rectangle against the wall adjacent to the one in which the chamber door was set . . . a hidden passage. Baron Whitmore stepped out of the shadows, his right arm extended, a gun in his hand. 

There was only one way out of the room - through the baron. 

"Give me the book, Mr. Verne." 

Jules tightened his hold around the book and backed up a step, trying to recall the exact layout of the room. There were chairs behind him and a tie beam above them. Through the dormer window he could reach the roof. He had to put distance between himself and that gun. He needed cover. 

Fogg would be here soon. 

"Mr. Verne?" 

Not soon enough. 

"No." He punctuated the remark by running for the chairs behind him. Jules scrambled up the arm to the carved wooden back of a chair, expecting all the while to hear the sharp report of the gun and feel the fire of a bullet digging into his flesh. Splinters from the chair directly beside his calf told him the final destination of the first shot, while he heard the second the hit the wall above his head. He'd placed the book onto the flat of the beam and was pulling himself aloft when he heard a series of clicks, followed by Whitmore cursing aloud and a clatter - the gun had been thrown to the floor. 

It must have jammed! 

After hauling himself up onto the beam, Jules fell flat against the length of it in relief, his cheek resting on the leather cover of the book as if it were a pillow. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, safe for the moment. His mouth felt dryer than a desert; what he wouldn't give now for that glass of water he'd thrown-- 

THWACK! 

Jules' eyes shot open to see the tip of his discarded saber embedded in the beam beside his head, directly at eye level. Whitmore had reached the height of the beam by standing with one foot on either arm of a chair. Even as Jules watched, he was wrenching the saber blade out of the wood, tugging on it. 

His heart pounding in his chest, Jules grabbed the book to him and scuttled back along the beam . . . but once Whitmore had freed the sword, the man need do nothing more than move to the next chair for the blade to be within striking distance. There was no safety here. 

The beam to his left was about three feet from him. Opening his shirt, Jules tucked the book inside, shifting his suspender to hold it in place. He reached out for the next beam and for a moment was suspended over the floor, hands flat on the one beam and feet resting on the other. Inching his palms forward, he struggled to get his fingers over the far side of the next beam. The saber cracked against the heel of his right boot the very second he pulled away. By his fingertips, he pulled his full weight across the open space and onto the second beam. 

Jules balanced on his stomach for a moment, then maneuvered himself sideways. He was lying full-length against a beam again, the book inside his shirt between his chest and the wood of the beam. He turned his head to watch his adversary. 

Whitmore was struggling to find purchase on the first beam without setting down the sword - if he placed the sword on the flat of the beam, Jules might be able to reach it. Finally, he struck the edge of the saber into the side of the beam closest to him - it hung there as he began to climb. 

Knowing that he couldn't retrieve the sword without placing himself within reach of Whitmore, Jules gave up that option and surveyed his position. On his hands and knees he could barely clear the rafters, but if he crawled back a few feet he'd be at the lower edge of the casement for the dormer window, where the rafters were higher. 

Sliding backward wasn't an option - not with his previous experience of splinters from these beams. Jules carefully lifted his hands and knees as he crawled backwards toward the dormer casement and away from Whitmore, who was still fighting to pull himself up onto the beam. 

The rafter structure changed at the dormer - there was more than enough clearance for Jules to kneel upright. Frantically, he ran his hands along the wooden frame of the window and the glass, but there was no visible latch; the window was made of a piece and had never been intended to open. The panes of glass were cold and a brisk draft from the warped window frame chilled him. Beyond the window he could see the slope of the roof, which ended at a decorative wrought iron grate that ran the length of the roof edge. A look over his shoulder confirmed that Whitmore had reached the first beam. 

The only escape was the roof. Jules pulled the book out of his shirt, grasped the bottom of it tightly with both hands, and swung it against the center of the glass. 

The glass shattered along with the wooden frame; his momentum carried him through the window after the book. In a shower of glass fragments, fingers cut and bleeding, Jules tumbled out the window frame and landed on the roof tiles. He slid down the incline of the roof, twisting as he fell, unable to stop himself. The book escaped his grip and he reached for in, only to see it spin away. It came to rest against one of the posts of the iron railing and a few seconds later so did Jules with a loud, "Ooof!" 

His fingers closed around the book instantly and he drew it to his chest again, gasping - the landing against the iron railing had knocked the breath out of him. The sound of more breaking glass was startling; he flipped over to see Whitmore using the flat of the saber to clear fragments away from the frame before stepping through. 

Jules shook the remaining shards of glass from the book and tucked it back into his shirt. Grabbing hold of the railing, he pulled himself to his feet and scrambled across the edge of the roof. Ahead of him stood the brick side of the building, which rose above the pitch of the tiled roof as a wall in the form of a battlement. Built in a crenellated manner, each of the merlon sections was a little higher than the previous one so that they formed a series of brick steps that rose to meet the left chimney, which stood at the center and uppermost point of the wall. 

He had nowhere else to go. Driven forward by the bitter, cold wind, Jules made his way to the battlement. His fingers were growing stiff with the drop in temperature; he had difficulty flexing them enough to hold onto the top brick edgings of the merlons, using it to draw himself up the incline as he attempted to scale the roof. If he could reach the other side of the chimney, it might provide him some protection from Whitmore's saber. 

The saber blade crashed down near his heel - Jules scrambled up onto the last merlon, the outcropping that stood flat against the chimney, his back against the warmth of the brick as he stared down at Baron Whitmore. Again, the blade hampered Whitmore's mobility - he couldn't pull himself closer to Jules without using both hands, yet that would mean abandoning his weapon. The furthest swing of the blade barely reached the tips of Jules' boots. 

He glanced down over the side of the building - four stories to the ground. Cabs and private carriages crowded the street before the club, including several police wagons - he could see people being loaded into them by the lanterns of the carriages. Above the roar of the wind in his ears he swore he could hear his name being called from below, but there was too much distance between his perch and the ground to discern a face or a person in the crowd. More faces seemed to be turned upward now, looking in his direction, pale spots illuminated by lamps held high. 

"It's a long way to fall," warned Whitmore. 

Jules turned his attention back to the baron - he was standing at the end of the roof, leaning against the iron railing as he tapped the side of the saber against the brick wall beside him. 

"You can't last much longer - not in this wind. Give me the book and you'll live." 

Where the hell was Fogg? As long as there was a chance Whitmore could escape through that secret passage with the book, Jules wasn't about to give it up. He opened his shirt enough to take the book out and held it before him - it proved to be little protection against the wind. 

Whitmore grinned when he saw the book. Setting the saber blade flat against the top of the brick wall, Whitmore placed his hand over the sword. He climbed up onto the merlon carefully, rising to stand upright with the sword in his hand. A moment passed as he found his balance, then he swiped the blade experimentally before him - the foible was still a good distance from touching Jules' shins. 

Swallowing, Jules grabbed hold of the chimney edge with his right hand and held the book in his left, over the edge of the roof. "One step closer and I'll drop it." 

"Drop that book and I'll skewer you." Whitmore's grin faded. "It means nothing to you. Save your life, Mr. Verne - give me the book." 

"Never!" hissed Jules. 

Baron Whitmore bared his teeth in a snarl, then raised his left boot, taking a tentative step up to the next merlon in the brick wall. 

**** 

End of Chapter 12 

**** 


	15. Chapter 15

**** 

Damnation and Hellfire - Chapter Thirteen 

Passepartout had been correct, it had grown colder outside. The building providing the escapees with some protection from the wind, but they were hardly dressed for the weather. And neither was Rebecca. 

Seven of her nine charges were huddled together in the shadow of the house, sharing the poor protection of the thin blankets. The eighth, the head steward, sat at the base of the wall just behind them. The ninth was a tall young man, still fit, as he'd only been taken to the basement that morning. His frock coat and waistcoat had been pressed into service, the clothing now sheltering the bodies of two of the wounded. She caught him kneeling behind the shivering group and unbuttoning his shirt, as if that were to be removed as well. 

Rebecca placed a hand on his shoulder and he looked up at her. "No," she said softly, "you've given enough for the moment. What's your name?" 

"Rupert, miss," he answered, eyes suddenly downcast as if remembering his place. 

"Well, Rupert, call me Rebecca." She placed her hand beneath his chin, lifting his gaze to meet her eyes. "There's a dairy building down past the kitchens. You know where?" 

"Yes, miss - Rebecca." He corrected himself immediately, his eyes lighting at her approving smile. "Although it's a place for the maids, not the footmen, and not much trafficked this time of night." 

"That's what we'll need, then - a place to get them sheltered and warm, until we can get some help." She paused a moment, thinking of the three footmen they'd attacked earlier, who were hopefully still tied up inside the dairy. Hardly a defensible position but shielded from the wind; she could leave her charges there and make for the wall, find help . . . . 

What sort of help could she find dressed as she was, without a coin of the realm on her? Escape was so much easier when one only had oneself to consider. Rebecca had never before been placed in a position such as this - leading a group of wounded civilians to safety. She was beginning to wish that she'd insisted Passepartout accompany her, yet there was Jules to find and Phileas to warn. 

Damn her cousin for drawing them all into this! 

"I need to take a look at the dairy, to make sure it's still secure," she told Rupert. "Keep them as quiet as you can. If anyone comes while I'm gone . . . ." 

She hadn't thought to take any defensive weapons, even though she'd warned Passepartout to do so - how muddle-headed she was becoming! Not that she'd thought that any of them would be capable of protecting themselves, but if anything happened it would have given them at least a chance. 

Rupert was watching her, as if waiting for further instructions. When no more were forthcoming, he smiled grimly. "I'll do best as I can." 

"That's all any of us can do," agreed Rebecca. She placed her hand on his shoulder, gave it a squeeze, then crouched down and made her way along the side of the main building. She found the weight of the others' presence lifted from her slightly as she moved away from them, responsible only for herself for the moment, and chided herself for such ungenerous feelings. Her duty to the crown wasn't only to retrieve secrets and ferret out the movement of spies, but to protect the Queen's subjects; to do anything less would be a grave dereliction. 

Light still shone brightly from the windows of the Hellfire Club, but there was sufficient shadow to cover her movements and the ground was hard enough to keep the sharp heels of her shoes from sinking into the dirt. The area outside the door to the dairy building was deserted and there were no more footmen sneaking puffs from stolen cigars. Better yet, the dairy door was barred exactly as she had left it. 

Rather than sneak her way across the yard, Rebecca rose to her full height and walked with a rapid pace - no observer from a window would look twice at a maid heading toward the dairy. She pulled the bar from the door, left it open enough to allow some light in the room, and slipped inside. 

The three bound footmen were all awake; they had changed position, obviously attempting to untie one another's bonds, but it didn't appear the effort had been at all successful. Still, she kept the bar they'd used to block the outer door in her hands as she approached the captives. 

At first they didn't recognize her, seeing only a housemaid, and tried shouting at her through their gags, flopping like fish on the floor to show they needed to be cut loose. As she approached them and made no sign of astonishment and no move to help, they stilled - had there been sufficient light, she fancied she might have seen the recognition of her identity as their captor in their eyes. 

Rebecca could sympathize - they had no idea why they'd been accosted, bound, and gagged. There was no doubt in her mind that something as horrible as she'd found in that cellar room would be kept from a majority of the staff. These men might very well have found themselves among the group of victims she'd discovered in the cells if the head steward had observed their infraction with the cigars. And yet . . . she didn't dare take a chance. 

"You won't be harmed," she told them. "Just stay quiet." 

Their faces were in shadow and she couldn't tell whether or not they believed her and didn't much care at the moment - she was carrying too many other burdens. Rebecca paused long enough to retrieve her cloak and to steal Jules' stockings and shoes from their abandoned clothing, slipping off the horrible heeled things she'd been wearing all night and happy to have the added warmth of the stockings on her legs. The footmen didn't need to be locked in and she needed a weapon. Taking the door's metal bar, she left the dairy and closed the door behind her before slinking back into the shadow of the main building. 

Her charges were where she had left them, silent with the exception of the occasional muffled sob. Rupert rose warily as she approached and she realized with some amusement that he was holding one of the maid's shoes in his hand as an impromptu weapon. 

"It's Rebecca," she whispered, to give him sufficient warning. "The dairy's secure and it's clean. We should be safe there for a little while." 

It was difficult to give up the warmth of the cloak, but she did so, passing it along to the others. The smallest and most badly injured of the maids was wrapped in a blanket. Rupert lifted her in his arms and another uninjured footman followed his example. Two of the healthier women helped the last of the footmen and the final maid took up the rear - Rebecca handed her the metal bar and grabbed the head steward by the back of his coat. She yanked him to his feet and led him, at the front of the procession, through the cover provided them by the shadow of the house wall. 

They moved across the open space before the dairy in groups of two or three. Rebecca didn't release her breath until they were all safely inside, the bar dropped into place across the hooks inside the doors to keep them from being opened from the outside. Two candles were found and quickly lit, then the head steward's coat, waistcoat, shirt, stockings, and shoes were removed and put to better use, along with her friends' clothing. 

Rebecca had taken one of the men's shirts for herself, as well as a pair of breeches - to her amusement Rupert had insisted on holding up her cloak as a screen in the corner of the room as she changed, keeping his back to her. Once her transformation was complete, she touched his hand to let him know to lower his arms. 

It was warmer out of the wind, and they had clothing and blankets enough to address most of their immediate problems. Her previous captives seemed bewildered by the appalling state of the head steward, not to mention the rest of the servants. They were all hungry and tired, with at least three needing the immediate attention of a doctor. 

There was no food here, no doctor, nor any weapons of which to speak. 

Rupert touched the sleeve of her shirt. There was something hesitant in his manner as she turned to look at him, but after a pause, he drew himself up to his full height. "You should rest, miss. I'll fetch the police." 

In any another circumstance, the gallant offer might have annoyed her - instead, it touched her weary heart. "As lovely as that sounds, I think you might do better here," she told him, in a quiet voice. "Keep an eye on the head steward - we'll need him for the court case, I can't afford to have him injured. As for the other three, they might be innocent of all this." 

"Should I let 'em free? They might be an 'elp." 

That he was keeping a level head under these conditions impressed her. Rebecca bit her lip, having considered the possibility herself. "That's at your discretion." 

He nodded, after a moment's consideration. "If you could bring a doctor, too, miss? And a parson." 

Her original intention had been to get them even further away from the Hellfire Club, over the wall and to freedom . . . but standing at the dairy door, with Rupert beside her, Rebecca suddenly realized that she'd be hard pressed to take them anywhere else without assistance. She'd have to convince the police to attend to the matter, even if it meant rousting Sir Jonathan from his sleep to verify her authority. And she'd have to do it now. 

"You'll put this bar in place again after I've left - don't lift it until you hear two knocks, then three." Rebecca turned to find Rupert was holding the cloak open for her. She shook her head. "No, it's better--" 

"It's cold out, miss. Won't do us much better 'ere than it will for you out there." 

Where was he from? There was a bit of an edge to his voice that had been blunted by service - Yorkshire, perhaps? 

"Thank you," she said, allowing him to drape the cloak around her, then fasten it at her neck. 

"We're safe enough 'ere. Don't be taking risks on our account," he warned, pulling the bar from the door. 

Rebecca paused and, on impulse, pressed the slightest kiss on his cheek. "Take care of them, Rupert. I'll be back soon." 

Odd, but she couldn't seem to get out of the dairy quickly enough. And yet once outside with the door barred behind her, Rebecca stood in the well-lit yard moments longer than need required or safety permitted, wanting nothing more than to give the required signal and return again. This war between independent action and the necessity of protecting these abused souls bewildered her. Duty had been the word she'd learned at Sir Boniface's knee, the word she'd built her life around, but duty to whom? To what? 

It was too cold and too late to ponder such things . . . and too noisy? The sounds of carriages in the street beyond the entrance to the Hellfire Club drew her attention. Rebecca ducked into the shadow of the main building and crept her way along, trying to make sense of the hullabaloo. Men taking their carriages home after an evening of drunken debauchery would surely be more orderly than this - from the calls, cries, and shouts it sounded very much like a riot. 

From the cover of the building, Rebecca watched the tumult with a growing sense of wonder. The semi-circular gravel driveway that had been guarded by a high iron fence and formidable footmen was now awash in a sea of bobbies, police vans, and carriages. Dark blue cloaks and uniforms were interspersed with gentlemen's evening attire and the livery of Hellfire Club maids and footmen. Bobbies caught those attempting to flee and herded them into the vans. 

It was madness and yet she had no choice but to wander into it. Here was salvation for her charges, without having to convince the local constabulary that something was horribly wrong at a fashionable men's club. She made her way easily into the swirl of people. It was only a matter of finding the right ear to bend. 

A policeman caught hold of her shoulder. "'Ere now, miss - if you're staff, you're to be--" 

"Who's in charge? I must speak to him immediately." 

The policeman released his hand from her shoulder, responding both to the authority of her tone and the clarity of her pronunciation, no doubt. "I'm sorry, miss, but we're to gather up everyone what's 'ere. I'll have to take you in. But this is where we're putting the staff. You'll be wanting the--" 

The remainder of his comment was drowned out by a nearby, altogether too familiar voice, commanding and still unctuous to an astounding degree. "--Want the place completely surrounded. _Completely_. Everyone's to be taken into custody. I don't care if he's the son of the Lord Mayor of London, we'll sort it out later, but _do_ take care to separate the staff from the gentry--" 

"Thank you," Rebecca said, giving the policeman a dazzling smile as she slipped away from her captor. "I think I've found him." 

"Miss! 'Ere, you, miss!" 

Ducking under one man's raised arm and slipping around a dazed footman being led to a van, Rebecca drew up to the right of Sir Jonathan Chatsworth and tapped him on the shoulder. "Ever sensitive to the societal nuances, I see." 

"Miss Fogg?" He swallowed, his small eyes almost folding in upon themselves as his gaze narrowed in a stare. 

The policeman she'd escaped caught up with her and quickly touched the brim of his hat when he saw Sir Jonathan. "I'm sorry, sir. The lady slipped off on me--" 

"She's one of _us_," said Sir Jonathan sharply, waving the man away. 

The policeman paled and nodded his head toward Rebecca. "Sorry, miss. Shoulda made yourself known." 

"That's quite all right." Throwing him a radiant smile seemed to assuage his obvious worry about having committed a serious career faux pas. The policeman backed away and Rebecca turned her attention to Sir Jonathan, who was pointedly _not_ looking her in the eye. 

"It's something of a surprise to see _you_ here," he said. 

"Is it?" She raised an eyebrow and shifted slightly, falling directly into his line of sight. 

He couldn't help but see her. As if doomed to face the inevitable, he straightened his shoulders and fixed her with a sour look. "Does Fogg know you're here?" 

Rebecca's smile froze. "I've had words with Phileas on that very subject earlier, if that's what you're asking." 

"You shall have words again," said Sir Jonathan briskly, by way of a command, "and inform him that your presence was entirely of your own doing and _not_ part of any sanctioned assignment." 

"Phileas knows it was my idea to come here," she said slowly, trying to read the spymaster's expression. "Should he suspect otherwise?" 

"He took this situation in hand, under my directive, to prevent your involvement." Sir Jonathan's lips pursed and he glanced away, as if barely controlling his anger. "I gave him my word you'd not be called upon. If he thought that I'd arranged to have you present in spite of our agreement?" 

More than a little stunned, Rebecca found herself staring at Sir Jonathan. "Phileas _volunteered_ to carry out a mission for the Service." 

"Yes." Sir Jonathan's lips curled into a brief smile and he rose up on the tips of his shoes momentarily as if in triumph, but then dropped back down, deflated by her disbelieving stare and the criticism implicit in her raised eyebrow. "Well, he'd come to me with an inquiry--Look sharp there!" he called to a policeman over her shoulder, raising his cane to punctuate the warning. Then Sir Jonathan met her gaze again, the barest of apologetic smiles on his lips before he caught her arm and drew her to one side, even as the crowd of policemen entering the club and members and staff exiting the club swirled around them. "But as long as you're here--" 

"I've come to borrow some of your men," said Rebecca quickly, before she could be assigned to another, less urgent project. "I've rescued eight people held prisoner in that club and managed to detain the head steward for your interrogation." 

"Rescued?" He stared at her for a moment, small eyes suddenly keenly hostile. "What are you going on about? Do you have any idea how politically sensitive this is? This blackmail scheme runs the gamut from bank managers to peers of the--" 

"Murder." She spat the word, needing him to hear her. "Torture. Mutilation and dismemberment. Does that sound familiar?" 

He paled and glanced to one side, eyes thoughtful as he raised a finger to his lips. "The bodies drawn from the Thames." 

Rebecca took a step closer to him, her voice little more than a whisper. "There's a hallway leading from the wine cellar to a torture chamber. Two bodies are down there, in addition to an unconscious guard that should be taken into custody immediately. I've taken eight of their intended victims to safety, along with the head steward; I've yet to determine his full culpability, but he knew what was going on at the very least, even if he didn't participate in the murders. There's been worse at the Hellfire Club than mere blackmail - much, much worse." 

Placing his hand on her shoulder, Sir Jonathan asked hungrily, "Eight witnesses? Where are they? Can they be taken into custody?" 

"I've hidden them in the dairy, one of the buildings back behind the kitchen - three men and five women, all taken from the club staff. I don't know when they've last eaten. Some of them are desperately wounded - they've been abused, assaulted, cut, burned." Rebecca looked up at him, meeting his gaze. "They need immediate medical care, as well as protection. One of them might need a minister before morning. But they mustn't be taken to a police station. To place them in another cell--" Her voice broke. She swallowed in embarrassment and turned her gaze away momentarily, before daring to look at him again. "If you could spare a police van and a few officers?" 

She had never noticed much fellow feeling for other mortals in Sir Jonathan Chatsworth. In fact, she'd been convinced that his concern for the well being of those in his direct employ was of the shallowest nature, solely dependent upon whether they could properly execute the tasks to which he'd assigned them. There had been accidents, of course, and losses . . . there always were - those being one of the reasons Phileas had abdicated his responsibility toward the Service and walked away. It was easier to accept such things when one considered that man had a free will and in choosing to participate in the Great Game, an individual must know that he imperiled his health, safety, and his life. 

But they spoke of innocents now and not of the Great Game. There was something in Sir Jonathan's gaze that seemed softer, as if he too had been struck by this as much as she. "Of course," he said. "They should be taken to hospital and guarded there. Interrogated there, as well, at least initially. I shall leave this in your hands. It needs a woman's touch." 

Rebecca started in alarm at the statement and was about to protest, when Sir Jonathan turned away and began to gesture frantically toward a nearby policeman. "Sergeant?" 

The officer turned at the call and touched the brim of his hat respectfully. "Yes, Sir Jonathan?" 

"Place a full detail of officers and a police van at the disposal of Miss Fogg. She's in custody of witnesses - they're to be taken to . . . St. Mary's Hospital, I should think, on the Queen's authority. Give her your fullest cooperation." 

"Yes, Sir Jonathan." Again, the respectful touch to his cap, then the sergeant turned toward her. "Miss?" 

Rebecca allowed herself an honest smile of absolute gratitude to Sir Jonathan Chatsworth. "Thank you." 

Sir Jonathan cleared his throat loudly and looked away. "Yes, well . . . why must you always complicate matters so? And that outlandish costume! You look like a refugee from a fancy dress affair. I do _not_ approve of this mode of apparel. It's most unsuitable for one of her Majesty's agents." 

"Yes, Sir Jonathan." Rebecca mock curtseyed despite her lack of skirt, then touched the policeman's shoulder. "Sergeant--?" 

"Brooks, Miss. If you'll follow me, we'll collect my men." 

There were six men under Sergeant Brooks' authority - one addressed the issue of the police van while the others accompanied her and the sergeant to the dairy. The door was opened when she knocked in the proper sequence. Rupert stood aside respectfully and a bit warily as the police entered the room behind her, but she smiled at him. 

"It's all right - the Hellfire Club's undergoing a police raid," she informed him quietly, as the bobbies made their way into the small room. "We've got help now. They're to take you to St. Mary's Hospital." Then Rebecca turned her attention to the sergeant and pointed out the bound head steward and three other footmen. "Those men can be taken to the station - the footmen can go with the other staff, but the head steward should be kept apart, only Sir Jonathan or myself can have access to him." 

"Yes, miss." Sergeant Brooks gestured toward two of his men and they moved immediately toward the captives. "The others to St. Mary's?" 

"Yes. Have them kept together, if at all possible. And if you have any questions," she turned toward Rupert, "this gentleman will be in charge." 

The other four officers began to address moving the wounded to the police van. Rebecca pulled Rupert to one side. 

"I shouldn't be having the say of this thing, miss," he protested softly. "I'm not--" 

She touched a finger to his lips and he stopped talking instantly. "They'll need one of their own to sort things out at the hospital. I'll follow as soon as I can. The Sergeant and his men will make certain you're all given proper medical care, as well as food and a place to sleep." 

"And tomorrow, miss?" Rupert's eyes met hers for a long moment, then he looked away. "None of the staff have families, or none they'd say - they wouldn't hire us if we weren't unattached. We've no situation, no hope of reference, and after what they've done to the girls, I--" His cheeks flushed, he looked away. "What do I tell 'em, miss, after their bellies are full and they've slept? They'll be out on the streets?" 

"I'll find something." She raised her hand to his shoulder and squeezed gently, hoping she sounded more certain than she felt. "If there's any trouble, you send word to me, Rebecca Fogg. I'll leave my information with the sergeant." 

Rupert bit his lip, and then met her gaze again. "If you don't mind my asking, miss . . . why? Why help us? You've no obligation." 

It was an honest question from what appeared to be a forthright young man - he was bewildered and suspicious of her altruism and she couldn't blame him, after what he'd experienced. Rebecca hesitated before answering, then turned to watch two of the policemen as they carried out the smallest and most badly wounded of the women, the little maid who'd latched onto Passepartout's waistcoat and cried as if there'd never be an end to her tears. 

What _could_ she tell him? That it was her duty, not only as a servant of her Majesty, but as a human being? That her soul would never rest if she walked away from what she'd seen tonight? That she'd never be able to pass another broken man or woman on the street and wonder if this was one of the people she'd rescued and then abandoned? 

Instead, she forced a smile and touched a hand to his cheek. "Because you needed help," she said simply. "And I was there. And I will _be_ there." 

The others were being led out now. Unable to speak over the lump in her throat, Rebecca quickly turned away from him and went outside. The cold air was bracing and helped to restore her equilibrium. As much as she was moved to help them to the police van, she held back, knowing that she'd only be in the way. 

Police were now patrolling the exterior Hellfire Club main building, sealing off the visible exits and rounding up stragglers. She received a few intrigued looks and at least one police officer started toward her, but turned away when she held the dairy door open for the policemen carrying out the injured footman. Lantern lights hung amid the darkness like fireflies as the bobbies ran to and fro, accompanied by whistle calls and shouted instructions. Her earlier assessment of the scene as resembling a street riot was not far off the mark. 

Sergeant Brooks joined her outside the dairy. "That's all of 'em out, including the ones headed for the station. As for the hospital . . . a few of 'em are in a bad way, miss," he said quietly. 

"I understand." She nodded in an attempt to relieve him of that worry - he wasn't to be held culpable if one of the witnesses in his care expired. "I'm sure you'll do your best, sergeant. That's all I ask." 

"Yes, miss. Will you be coming with us?" 

"No, but I'll follow shortly." There was a sudden increase in the level of noise around them. Annoyed, Rebecca raised her voice. "I have three friends in there I have to collect." 

"Best to have an officer escort you, then. Or you might end up in a van and get hauled down to the station." When she raised an eyebrow, he cleared his throat and added quickly, "It's the matter of your dress, miss; we've orders not to let anyone suspect get past." 

They were almost shouting at one another, to be heard above the roar of the crowd. "What the devil?" demanded the sergeant, grabbing the arm of a passing bobby. "What's going on?" 

"There's somebody up on the roof, sir." 

Rebecca felt a chill run through her and turned her gaze upward. The moon was bright, clouds skittering across the night sky, pushed by the buffeting wind. A chimney sat dead center at the side of the building, a brick battlement built to either side of it. There was a white-shirted figure at the uppermost of the battlements, on the far side of the chimney. 

"Jules!" she called, but was almost instantly certain he couldn't hear her, not from that height. 

A sword caught the moonlight, a flash of steel - a man was there, going after Jules. 

She needed to get up there. Her leather ladder and grappling hook were in the dressing room on the third floor - small hope there. But there were windows on the third and fourth floor. With the aid of a wooden ladder . . . . 

Rebecca grabbed the sergeant's arm. "Send one of your men to the carriage house - I need a ladder and any rope they can find." 

He stared at her for a moment, lips partly opened as if to ask, but then he shook his head and ran forward to catch the arm of the first bobby within reach. "You! And you! To the carriage house. I need a ladder and rope. Now!" 

Only faintly aware that bobbies were scurrying away at the sergeant's direction, Rebecca stared up at the roof, calculated the distance between the lowest windows and the roof line, and willed with all of her might that Jules would hold his perch safely until she reached him. 

**** 

End of Chapter 13 

**** 


	16. Chapter 16

**** 

Damnation and Hellfire - Chapter Fourteen 

The door to the ceremony chamber was closed - not a good sign. Phileas opened it and peered into the darkened room calling, "Verne?" 

No reply. 

There was moonlight. The lectern was lying at the center of the room, fallen onto its front, a wooden cabinet door lying on the floor beside it. He took a step into the room and saw a wall panel gaping open into further darkness, the shadow of a staircase at the base of it - a secret passageway. Another step and his boots crunched something underfoot; Phileas squatted down and identified the fragments as glass, tracing them up to the dormer window, through which a chill wind was blowing. 

There was a gun, abandoned, in the square of moonlight that entered through the window. Phileas walked to it, picked up the weapon with his left hand, and checked it - a bullet was lodged in the chamber. A jam. But a pass of the muzzle beneath his nose brought the fragrance of powder, the scent memory of a recent firing. 

"Verne," he said again. 

His heart stopped. Phileas knew that because every beat of it could be felt in the throbbing ache of his wounded right arm and for a moment that appendage had fallen blessedly numb. But there was no body. No blood trail that he could discern and even in the darkness there would have been some sign. Had he been killed, Verne would have been here, or dragged down the steps of the secret passage, leaving crimson spots behind. There was a broken window, instead. 

His heart beat again. Because Verne had broken the glass. Verne had gone out to the roof. 

Verne was alive. 

Phileas tucked the gun into the rear of his trousers, placing it snugly beneath the pull of the fitted waistband. The saber he dropped to the floor almost without thought as he walked to the center of the room and stood beneath the window, puzzling out the problem of access. Remembering that Verne had dropped from the heavens once before in this room, he sought out the beams, worked his way back to the wall and a bullet hole in the wood framing of one of the high back chairs, then another above that. He turned and looked up, seeing that a sliver of wood had been sliced from the beam, the core pale yellow when compared with the darkened aging of the surrounding area. A blade had cut there in two separate thrusts, one deeper than the other. 

Verne had gone upward. Verne had been followed. 

His right arm didn't want to obey, but he made it bend and twist to his will, ignoring its frequent protests. The glove on his hand proved an asset as fresh blood trickled from those open wounds down the length of his arm and palm to be absorbed by the lining. His height was an asset; Phileas stood on the arm of a chair, then the carved wooden design on the back and could almost roll atop the beam. He slid to the next, kicking off from the first beam and trusting his length and weight to secure his balance when his fingertips refused to oblige with a proper grip. 

Crawling along the beam was not such an effort and then he found himself kneeling at the windowsill. The fencing glove protected his right hand from the broken shards of glass as he leaned across the windowsill and peered out into the frigid night. 

The wind could not have chilled him more than the scene revealed by the moon - Verne was standing with his back against the left brick chimney, the leather bound book raised to protect himself while Baron Whitmore tentatively made his way forward up the steps-and-stairs arrangement of the brick battlement, a saber in his hand. 

"Whitmore, stop!" called Phileas, surprising even himself with his own strength of voice. "It's over." 

Baron Whitmore raised his head in response to the call - even at the distance Phileas could see the white of the man's grin beneath his mustache. "It's never over, Fogg, you know that." 

There was no chance of getting out onto the roof, at least not in time to save Verne before that sword reached him. Phileas grabbed the gun from his waistband and held it in his hands. It was a front-loading revolver - he'd seen the jammed bullet lodged in the chamber. He tapped it lightly against the window frame and called again. "You can't escape." 

He dared a glance up and saw that Whitmore was watching him. Phileas kept the gun lowered from view, still fiddling with the chamber, but the gun would neither unload nor would the bullet slip into place. Whitmore was staring at Phileas, as if considering his words. And then he looked to Verne. 

"Come back!" called Phileas. 

"And hang?" 

There was no real answer to that. Phileas held the gun in his hand, balancing his options. He could strike the gun hard against the window frame in an attempt to dislodge the bullet. That might work - or the bullet might seem to slip back into place and shatter within the barrel when the trigger was pulled. 

"There's no hope for it, Fogg." 

Phileas looked up again and met Whitmore's gaze across the distance of the roof. His right hand steady, he slammed the gun as hard as he could against the window frame . . . and knew a moment later when he aimed and pulled the trigger that he'd failed - the bullet was still lodged in the loading chamber. 

His heart sank within him as he watched the baron's almost triumphant expression. "There's no hope for me," repeated Whitmore. He then turned that grin toward Verne. "Or for him." 

Baron Whitmore stepped forward onto the next merlon - once he'd found his balance the sword would bring him within striking distance of Verne. The gun in Phileas' hand was no more effective a weapon than a paperweight. 

Then Phileas realized that even a paperweight might prove an effective weapon when thrown with sufficient force and velocity. He grabbed hold of the windowsill with his left hand for balance, disregarding the small edges of glass that cut and tore at him, drew back his right arm, and convinced his abused flesh that it could manage at least one, solid and accurate throw. The gun sailed the distance he sought, but the trajectory was lower than he'd anticipated - it wouldn't hit Whitmore in the head or shoulder, as he'd hoped. 

It did, however, strike the man in the groin. 

The saber fell from Whitmore's hands, disappearing over the edge of the roof as the baron groaned. His body began to crumple in upon itself when his muscles spasmed, as they must, in reaction to the pain of such a blow. His foot slipped from the brick. He toppled. 

The baron gave no cry, disappearing into the darkness. The only confirmations Phileas had of the man's death were that Verne turned his head away, refusing to look over the edge of the brick battlement toward the ground, and a muffled thud somewhere down below, accompanied by the calls and cries of a distant crowd. 

Phileas could see his own relieved breath in the air before him, a white mist. He steadied himself against the interior dormer wall with his right hand and brushed the left on his trousers to dislodge the specks of blood and fragments of glass that clung to it. The cold proved to be an advantage, his fingers tingled more with the sharpness of the temperature than with pain. "Verne?" he called. 

His voice didn't tremble - he was proud of that. Verne looked down at him across the distance, his eyes still wide from having seen Baron Whitmore fall to his death. 

And then Verne called angrily, "Where the hell were you?" 

"Detained," answered Phileas with an equivalent shout, smiling, for Verne would never have answered in such a way unless he was unharmed. "Unavoidably detained." 

"I've got the book." 

Verne held the book aloft with such a look of pride that Phileas was hard-pressed not to laugh aloud. "So you have," he noted. "It's rather cold out there. Perhaps you'd best come back inside." It occurred to him as he watched Verne tuck the book inside his shirt that he had no idea how Verne had managed to reach his perch in the first place. 

Seeming to be entertaining a similar notion on how best to proceed, Verne paused on the brick battlement for a long moment. He then bent forward as if he were planning to climb down into the crenellation, which wasn't too far above the roof tiles. As he leaned, however, the book shifted, peeking out from the fastening of his shirt. Both of Verne's hands were occupied with maintaining his balance - he couldn't attend to the book. As Phileas watched, it slipped completely from the confines of Verne's garment and fell to the roof tiles, where it dropped two or three feet down the slope of the roof before sticking in place. 

For a moment Phileas thought all was lost - Verne teetered with the sudden change of weight, balanced across the edge of the brick merlon at the chimney and the beginning of the one slightly below him. Only when his friend seemed to steady himself did Phileas start to relax. 

Then Verne's attention seemed to center on the book balanced precariously on the roof tiles. "Don't worry - I can reach it." 

"No!" Phileas was half out the window, his knee on the window frame, seeing the danger as Verne pushed himself back onto the merlon that stood against the chimney, then squatted and reached out across the tiles in an attempt to catch hold of the book. "Verne, leave it!" 

It could have been an errant and raw gust that blew the wrong direction, or the too-slick soles on the pair of borrowed boots on Verne's feet. In any case he tipped down toward the book too quickly and, as if realizing his error, tried to draw back but overcompensated. Verne's hand went up, fingertips flailing against the side of the brick chimney in an attempt to find some purchase where there was none existing. 

A low sound made its way up from Phileas' gut to his throat - he had no control over it and even less over Verne's fate - this time there would be no hand to grasp, no way to even pretend the inevitable could be stopped. 

Before he could move, somehow, impossibly, a rope had appeared from the far side of the chimney. A weight on the end of it carried it in an arc across Verne's midsection, past him, and back behind the brick structure, out of Phileas' field of vision. Verne's body pushed at the rope, but it held, even as his hands grasped it. For a moment his boots were planted on the edge of the merlon and his body was suspended at an angle above the darkness beyond the battlement. The rope, now looped completely around the chimney, with a sudden tension was drawn tight, Verne's body coming with it. 

Hands appeared on the rope to Verne's right, followed by the rest of Rebecca. Her hair was tied back and she was wearing a white man's shirt at least a size too large for her, which had been tucked into a pair of black breeches, gray stockings that didn't quite reach the edge of the breeches below the knee, and ankle-high boots. 

And yet, as she grabbed hold of Verne and he her, Phileas decided he had never seen her look more fetching in any other outfit she had ever worn. 

"I've got him, Phileas," she called, even as she loosened the rope enough to slip herself under it, then drew it tight to hold them both against the chimney despite the pull of the wind. 

It was a tight squeeze for them on the merlon. His arm aching, Phileas allowed it to hang loosely from his side and transferred his grip on the window frame to his left hand. He guessed that she and Verne were conversing with one another, but their words were carried away by the wind. "How will you get down?" he called. 

"Same way I came up - there's a window just below us. That's if Jules doesn't mind a bit of climbing?" 

She was wearing her cheeky grin and Jules matched it. "Only if I never have to climb up here again," countered Jules. His gaze shifted and he suddenly pointed across the roof tiles. "Fogg - the book!" 

It was a warning, not a reminder - the book had dislodged itself from its position on the roof and was sliding down the slope of the tiles at an angle, toward Phileas. It moved slowly as first, as if hesitant, then gained speed as it skipped and bounced across the uneven tiles, following the concave bend in the roof toward the dormer window. Holding onto the window frame with his left hand and leaning out of the window, Phileas waited until the book was beneath his glove and slammed his hand down on it. 

It stopped. He dared not lift his hand to move his fingers to the edge of the book to grip it, for it would slide away, while his left hand was occupied with holding him in the window frame. Very slowly, Phileas drew his hand back toward the window, keeping a steady pressure on the book so that it moved horizontally across the roof tiles. Not very many seconds had passed before the book was close enough to nudge up against the side of the dormer and his gloved fingers could curl around the edge. He held up the book in triumph. 

But there was no witness to his success - his cousin had seated herself on the merlon and was even now disappearing from view, using the window she'd mentioned as an exit from her precarious position on the roof. Jules waited, standing, the rope still at his midsection, then he followed her. 

The wind blew, the cold numbed him, but Phileas remained in the window for several minutes after Verne disappeared from view. Had there been an accident, had Verne fallen, he might not have heard anything . . . but he felt he would have known. The part within him that sensed such things, however, was rock steady, calmer than it had been in weeks. And he knew with some indefinable certitude that both Verne and Rebecca had reached safety. 

Pulling himself inside the window, Phileas leaned his back against a support stud for the rafter and lounged full length against the tie beam, the book in his lap and his right arm hanging loosely at his side. It was cold by the open window, but he didn't mind it very much, for the opportunity to breathe unencumbered for long minutes was too delicious to resist. A languor drew over him like a blanket as weariness engulfed his muscles. Even as he heard his name called from below with some urgency, it was almost too much of an effort to respond. 

Passepartout had entered the room, followed by Chatsworth and that young footman friend of Verne's . . . William, wasn't it? 

"You certainly took your time," Phileas noted. 

It seemed to take Chatsworth a moment to locate him. The spymaster planted himself in the patch of moonlight just beyond the beam and peered up at him. "Fogg? What the devil are you doing up there?" 

"A bit of light reading." 

When he held up the leather-bound book, Chatsworth's face assumed the look of a ravenous dog presented with a raw and tempting cut of meat. "The book," he breathed. "Excellent work, Fogg. You've only to hand it over and your task is completed." 

"Not quite." With a silent apology to his right arm, Phileas turned the book to the reverse side and opened it on his lap, flipping from the back pages to the front. He knew the page he sought couldn't be too far beyond the many blanks at the rear of the book - that many fewer victims and villains Whitmore could record in its pages, thankfully. As tempted as he might be to read the words on each page, he resisted, his eyes focusing only on the top few lines of the paper, searching for one name in particular. 

When it was found, he folded the page along the gutter of the book, running the back of his fingernail up and down the crease carefully. Only after having established a sufficient weakness in the page did he dare tear it away - it separated with a sound that resembled a shriek in his ears. 

"Fogg, what _are_ you doing?" asked Chatsworth, tone both demanding and worried. 

The page was removed. Phileas folded it in thirds, tucked it down the open collar of his shirt, and closed the book. Almost idly, he placed his hand beneath the book and flipped it from where it rested on his leg. "_Now_ you may have it," he said wearily, as the book toppled end over end in the space between the beam and the floor of the chamber. 

Chatsworth didn't even attempt to catch the thing; he merely watched it fall and, after it had struck with a resounding 'thud,' lifted it to his breast with the care a mother would give a newborn babe. Still, he took a moment to fix Phileas with an accusatory glare. "You over-reach your brief, sir." 

"Oh, take it and be damned," Phileas told him, waving his hand in dismissal. 

"We _will_ discuss this further." Chatsworth turned, fussed briefly as he tried to get around first Passepartout and then William, but eventually brushed past the pair of them on his way to the door. 

"Good riddance," muttered Phileas, allowing his head to fall back against the beam after watching Chatsworth's departure. If there were to be further words, they would be Chatsworth's and spoken to empty air; the delivery of the book and the majority of the club members into Chatsworth's hands was the end of Phileas' official involvement with the Hellfire Club. 

Privately - he rested his right hand on his shirt front, beneath which lay the folded page he'd taken from the book - there was yet something more to be done. 

"Master?" called Passepartout from below, an anxious note gamely escaping his control. "Will you be comings down soon?" 

"At the earliest possible opportunity," agreed Phileas. "It's blessed cold up here." But as he began to lever himself forward to make his way back along the beam, his wrist went out from him, his right arm finally deciding that it simply could do no more. There was a gasp of alarm from below but Phileas ignored it - he'd been in worse shape and in worse circumstances before . . . at least there was no one shooting at him at the moment. "I believe," he announced with some annoyance, leaning back against the support beam again, "that I'll require some assistance. If you'd be so kind, Passepartout?" 

They were like jungle animals, monkeys the pair of them - Passepartout and William scrambled up the sides of the chairs and swung onto the beams as if the routine were part of their daily duties. Too tired to remain in awe of them, Phileas merely sighed. William remained on the first beam. Passepartout crawled along the second with a natural sense of balance that was a wonder to behold, or would have been had the exercise been a form of entertainment instead of a rescue mission that Phileas found irritated him on some fundamental internal level. His valet made it as far as Phileas' boots before stopping and studying Phileas with a look that was normally reserved for finding and correcting the slightest imperfections in his sartorial splendor. 

"I should be bandaging your arm, master," said Passepartout, giving a nod as if that was his final and complete assessment. 

It would have been the sensible thing to do, but Phileas not longer felt like being sensible. "Down, first." 

"Master--?" 

"Down," repeated Phileas, fixing his valet with a look that would brook no opposition. In this, at least, he could begin to reestablish control over his circumstance. 

Passepartout had been in his employ long enough to know when further argument was moot. Leaving the details to Passepartout and William, Phileas let himself be pushed and maneuvered. He fought not to show the slightest twinge or grimace when they pressed upon his wounded arm, and endured the manipulation of his body with the most stoic grace he could manage - they were, after all, extricating him from a difficult situation and didn't deserve his abuse. He was glad enough when they had finished, though, and all but collapsed into the padded wooden chair in which they carefully placed him. 

His right sleeve was being torn away. Phileas glanced over and saw that Passepartout was kneeling on the chair beside him, carefully ripping the cloth. The saber slices in Phileas' shirtsleeve gave his valet's fingers adequate purchase and made the destruction easier, but the amount of dried and drying blood present on the cloth amazed Phileas. Flesh wounds tended to bleed like the very devil and he'd been pressing the arm beyond its natural limits, but still . . . there was something improper about expending so much blood in so brief a period. 

A throat was being cleared - William, standing before him, eyes slightly downcast. "Mr. Fogg, sir, if you wouldn't mind me asking - what about Jules? Where is he?" 

"Ah, yes." Phileas managed a slight smile, automatically went to raise his right hand but stopped, receiving a glare from Passepartout for his error. With a nod of apology toward his valet, he gestured with his left hand instead, toward the chamber door. "That direction, I should think. He's with my cousin - she's a redhead dressed in the most outlandish outfit, I shouldn't think you'd mistake her. If you might find them and bring them here?" 

It was presumptuous of him to ask, William not being in his employ, not being in anyone's employ now for that matter. The young man didn't seem at all put out by the request, nodding and answering, "Yes, sir. Thank you," before heading for the door at a run. 

"Nice young chap," Phileas commented idly, allowing his forehead to rest on the left side of the wing of the chair. "Extremely accommodating. And with a damned fine right hook. Chatsworth would be better served to enlist more young men of William's nature and fewer of the dandies he's been recruiting from Oxford and Cambridge." 

"Yes, master," said Passepartout. 

Phileas snorted, knowing when he was being humored. Passepartout was doing his best to address the immediate problem of his wounds without causing him any pain . . . and failing miserably. He found himself focusing on the broken wooden lectern lying in the center of the room and pondering why exactly it was that Verne always seemed to leave a wake of destruction in his path while retaining such a mild manner. Perhaps it was a result of his surfeit of enthusiasm? 

"Master, if I may be asking you a question?" 

Passepartout's inquiry was quiet, almost apologetic in tone. Phileas' first thought was that it might have something to do with his wound, but then dismissed that immediately - Passepartout would do what needed to be done and apologize after the fact. "I suppose there are a number to be answered," he said, realizing that he wasn't looking forward to facing either Verne or his cousin. "Must it be right now?" And then, with a sigh, he added, "Yes. Very well. What is it, Passepartout?" 

"That page you have pulled from the book - that is what was bringing you here tonight?" 

It wasn't the question he'd expected. Phileas hesitated before answering, then decided the time for lies had passed. "Yes." 

"Is over, then? We can be going home now?" 

"Almost over," agreed Phileas softly, knowing that the next step was his to make . . . and his alone. "But I should very much like to go home now, Passepartout. It occurs to me that I have missed supper entirely." Phileas looked down at Passepartout's work and discovered that his upper arm had been carefully bandaged - the best that could be done without water and proper supplies, but that could be addressed back at the townhouse. 

Passepartout was standing, shrugging into his frock coat, his own right sleeve conspicuously absent - he'd used it as the bandage. He grinned down at Phileas. "I am having some wonderful mutton left." 

"I shall look forward to eating it." Phileas raised his right hand to cover his yawn, thought better of it, and used his left. "If I manage to stay awake long enough to enjoy it. I think it's time a hack was summoned." 

"Yes, master." Passepartout half-turned, but paused. 

It was so unusual to see his valet indecisive about anything that Phileas was truly concerned for a moment. "And--?" 

Passepartout tilted his head slightly, as if still uncertain. "Is William to be accompanying us, master?" 

Again, his valet had surprised him with a question - but then Passepartout was full of surprises. "I see no reason why we can't drop him at his address on the way back to Saville Row. Or arrange transport for him." 

"He has no address, master. He has no _home_. He is like all staff here - they have no other place." 

"Ah," said Phileas softly, "I see." 

For it made perfect sense - hire staff with no familial or social connections and there'd be little hue and cry if they should suddenly vanish, which from Rebecca's brief comments on the subject was a definite possibility in this place. Baron Whitmore may have been devious and deranged, but he was also quite brilliant in his own way. 

Which didn't address the problem of William. There was no need for additional staff at Saville Row, nor would he burden McIver with another mouth to feed at Shillingworth . . . William might take either offer amiss as common charity and Phileas had no reason to insult the young man. He would be perfect for the Service, but to make that possible would be to do Chatsworth a favor - which he had no intention of doing - while simultaneously committing a grave injustice to William. Her Majesty's household was constantly in need of likely, loyal staff. And, now that he thought about it, there was always her household guard . . . . 

"Yes, Passepartout," said Phileas, still considering the question. "Ask William if he'd be willing to accompany us. I'm sure we can offer him accommodations for a few days until a suitable situation could be found for him. Would you think he'd find her Majesty's household acceptable?" 

"Very much so, master." Passepartout's approving grin informed Phileas that his instinct in the matter had been correct. "I will be finding a cab of sufficient spacing. Thank you, master." 

There was no chance for Phileas to protest Passepartout's expression of thanks as having been misplaced, for his valet left with due haste. He might have followed, but found the idea of heading out of the soothing darkness of the chamber and into the hall - the light of which barely crept into the room through the open door - completely unappealing. 

It had been Passepartout's idea after all, Phileas reasoned, settling back against the padded velvet back of the seat. He would take no credit for merely arranging an introduction and letter of referral - William had shown enough courage under fire to acquit himself admirably in the Queen's service. If anything, he was doing her Majesty the favor by ensuring that she was surrounded by trustworthy and competent people - God knew she could stand to have a few more around her, if only to compensate for Chatsworth's lack of character. 

The thought amused him; Phileas allowed himself the luxury of a smile even as his eyelids closed. He'd only rest his eyes for a second, until Passepartout returned or the others appeared. Only for that long and no longer. There was much yet to be accomplished before the night was over. 

For now, there was peace and darkness. The actions of this night could be questioned and answered for later, much later if he had any say in the matter. The careers of the Hellfire Club and its malevolent owner had both ended, without more violence and loss of life than necessary. There was, for the moment, only one observation on the matter Phileas felt obligated and qualified to make-- 

Whatever character flaws the former Baron Whitmore had shown, Phileas decided that he surely would never question the man's incomparable taste in comfortable chairs. 

**** 

End of Chapter 14 

**** 


	17. Chapter 17

**** 

Damnation and Hellfire - Chapter Fifteen 

Passepartout sat with the hamper on his knees and tried not to watch Miss Rebecca, who was gnawing on her lower lip and had lifted the window covering to stare at the streets they traveled past. The hamper could have remained on the seat, of course, but he was feeling particularly proprietary this morning and as he had made the soup, the tea and the sandwiches and had packed the bread, cheese, and cakes himself, it was right that the hamper should remain close to him. 

The flowers were even closer, a small spray held just inside his coat. They were not his to give, strictly speaking, having come from the small indoor garden he cultivated to provide Master Fogg with emergency blooms for his lapel. He did not think either Master Fogg or Miss Rebecca would mind his having taken one, especially one so lopsided and oddly yellow that it would have clashed with anything the master or Miss Rebecca could have chosen to wear. There had been loveliness in its imperfection that had made it dear to him, and he had cared for it when other blossoms of that type were plucked and removed with the weeds. He had not known why at the time, only that it had seemed the thing to do. 

It was an easier ride this morning than the previous night. Miss Rebecca might be distracted by her own thoughts, but she sat opposite him without any sign of discomfort and she smiled at him now and again, as if guessing that he was watching her while trying not to watch her. Last night it had not been that way at all. 

Passepartout had collected their belongings with Miss Rebecca - both her apparel from the maid's dressing room and what was left of his own and Jules' clothing in the dairy. He'd returned to the cab to find Jules already seated inside, wrapped warmly in two blankets that William had fetched from private rooms. Miss Rebecca had been seated next, opposite Jules, and had fussed over the writer. Jules had borne the treatment without murmur, but had caught Passepartout's arm - after he'd settled a blanket on Miss Rebecca's lap - and asked, "Where's Fogg?" 

"Is coming." 

"Is he all right?" 

Master Fogg had warned Passepartout he was not to inform Miss Rebecca of the injury to his arm - yet she was here and listening, he could feel her eyes on his back even as he tucked Jules back within the warmth of the blankets. Spotting Master Fogg heading toward them, Passepartout kept his expression neutral. "He is being much refreshed after his nap." 

Jules stretched his neck to look through the door and Passepartout turned his head as well. Dressed again in his waistcoat, tie, and frock coat, Master Fogg gave no sign of weakness and nodded slightly, seeing their attention. His concern seemingly allayed, Jules leaned back against the coach seat, his gaze directed toward the coach wall beside him and away from Fogg. 

Passepartout backed out of the coach to allow his master to enter, then sent William, wearing Miss Rebecca's cloak at her own insistence, atop with the driver. After he had found his own seat beside Jules and the cab door had been closed, they began the trip home to Saville Row. 

The journey of minutes seemed to stretch for hours, a somber silence filling the cab. The cousins sat on the same seat and yet they were miles apart all the way back to the townhouse. Or, rather, it was Master Fogg who was apart, for even Jules glared out from his cocoon of blankets now and again at Master Fogg's profile, looking away quickly should the master turn his glance toward his friend. They were tired, yes, and needed tea or coffee or - better yet - cocoa when they arrived. And there was more they needed - to be talking to one another - but Passepartout did not think it was yet his place to say so. 

Miss Rebecca exited first, going straight into the townhouse and upstairs without any word to her cousin. Master Fogg exited next and offered a hand to Jules, who refused it, nearly stumbling on his way out of the coach before he went inside. 

"See to Jules, " said Master Fogg, turning to pay the driver himself. And then, when Passepartout paused, repeated, "See to him," a bit more stiffly than he should. 

The words were not so bothersome to the valet - they were all tired - so Passepartout nodded and waved William down from the top of the cab. Jules had not gone upstairs, but was seated on the sofa in the study. Passepartout's first thought was to turn up the gaslight, but hesitated - their spirits would not be raised by bright lights, but warmth. Instead he gestured William toward the fireplace and the banked fire. William was a clever footman and pulled aside the screen, using the poker and the shovel to bring the coals to life again. 

He heard the closing and locking of the front door and saw Master Fogg's shadow as he paused in the hallway, but he did not stop at the study and passed upstairs as well. Deciding this was just as well, Passepartout approached Jules. "Master Jules, you will be needing something to warm you. Coffee is not so good at this late hour, but I have soup. Or cocoa?" 

The writer's eyelids looked heavy as he gazed at Passepartout - yes, sleep would come soon, but he should be warmed inside first and he had known precisely what to offer. "Cocoa would be wonderful, if it's not too much trouble, Passepartout," said Jules, with the faintest of smiles. 

"Cocoa is _never_ too much trouble," he promised, himself warmed as Jules' smile widened - it was the fellow-feeling among the French for their cocoa upon which he had counted. Were all drink other than wine and cocoa to disappear from the Earth, Passepartout was sure the French would survive. "Stay still and get warm," he said softly, reaching to catch Jules' fingers, still ice-cold even where they held tightly to the blankets, and squeezing them lightly. Then he straightened and caught William's attention, gesturing for him to follow. 

"I will be showing to you the kitchen," he told William, as they passed into the hall and headed toward the rear of the house. "This is Passepartout's kitchen, but Passepartout is willing to share with such a brave young footman. You will be finishing the cocoa and bring it to Master Jules when it is ready - I must be checking on Miss Rebecca. 

Once inside the kitchen, Passepartout hurried from the pantry to the table and back again, bringing out the ingredients and utensils, including - he decided after a moment's pause - a bottle of brandy, for a little bit would make the cocoa better to be sending Jules to sleep. William watched him dutifully while stoking the fire inside the range into action, then warming the water in the double boiler for the cocoa. 

"Mr. Passepartout--?" 

Passepartout stopped instantly and turned toward him. "No - it is only Passepartout here. And you are William. Yes?" Favored with the young man's grin, Passepartout took the small block of chocolate from the storage tin and began to grate it into a bowl. "Now, what is it that you are asking?" 

"Jules . . . he isn't a footman. He's not in service." 

It was not so much a question as it was a thinking out loud, but Passepartout nodded. "Master Jules Verne is a good friend of Master Fogg. And Passepartout," he added, almost as an afterthought. "He is a student at the Sorbonne and he studies law, but his heart is in the writing down of words. He has written plays, perhaps not such good plays," he admitted, "but he is thinking of stories and he will write better. He is genius. He sees things of what could be. Things of what _can_ be." 

Setting aside the grater, Passepartout showed William the proportions of his mixture chocolate to milk, after William closed the range coal door and moved closer. "There, and there, and there . . . and do not let it boil." He handed the upper pot to William. "I have seen what comes from Jules' mind. He _is_ genius." 

William took the top of the pot and set it carefully into the lower boiler - the water inside which was already bubbling merrily. "When we was footmen," he began, "we was friends. But now--?" 

"You are still friends." Passepartout placed a hand on William's shoulder, then realized the young footman hadn't paused long enough to remove his cloak. Clicking his tongue, Passepartout took the garment from William and draped it over his own arm, then smiled to show that his action shouldn't be taken as a reprimand. "Jules does not stand upstairs or downstairs - he does not see stairs at all." He made a motion with his hand. "Stirring, stirring - you must be stirring." 

William glanced this way and that, then finally caught sight of the spoon. He picked it up and then began to stir the cocoa with it, as Passepartout nodded approvingly. "Yes, that is the way. It must not burn or the cocoa will be bitter." Passepartout touched the bottle of brandy on the table and showed William two fingers. "Before you pour, put this much in the pot - it is enough to flavor but not to taste." 

"Yes, sir." And then, as Passepartout stared at him and held out a hand to one side, waiting, "Yes, Passepartout." 

"Good. You will be taking one cup to Jules and one cup for yourself and you will make him drink his cocoa, yes?" 

William stared, then glanced back at the table, as if realizing for the first time that there were two cups there. "But--?" 

"You are still his friend," repeated Passepartout. 

He watched the realization of it begin to sink into William's mind - a difficult thing for someone born to service to accept, he was sure. There was upstairs and there was downstairs and one did not mix with the other . . . except sometimes, when both were very lucky. It was not until William smiled that Passepartout was certain that he had mended that fence before it could be irretrievably broken. 

"Now," he informed William, "I am going to see Miss Rebecca. And if you hear breaking of glass and shouting, is just the way of the house. But be keeping your head down if you are in the hall and close the study doors to be safe." 

"Yes, Passepartout." 

The last was said nervously, but Passepartout left that as it was, exiting the kitchen and heading up the stairs - better to have William wary on such a strange night, for he'd grow used to the regular way of things in the few days he was here. It was almost a shame he would not be staying, but Master Fogg was right in that he would serve the Queen's household well. For the moment, he would be a friend to Jules. 

The door to Miss Rebecca's room was open, but Passepartout still paused at the doorway, eyes averted, and knocked on the doorframe. "Miss Rebecca?" 

"Come in, Passepartout! I need your help." 

He could see why she would say such a thing as soon as he entered the room - Miss Rebecca's boudoir was covered with clothing. Dresses, skirts, blouses, vests, petticoats, wraps, and assorted undergarments were strewn over the bed, the lounge, her vanity, her desk, and the floor. The doors to both of her wardrobes were open and looked as if they'd been struck by a windstorm, open drawers leaking gloves and other accessories. 

Partially shielding his gaze with one hand, Passepartout took careful steps through the oceans of fabric in an attempt to reach her - she was pulling items from the second wardrobe haphazardly at the far end of the room. Oddly enough, Miss Rebecca was still wearing the man's shirt, breeches, stocking, and shoes from their evening's adventure at the Hellfire Club. 

"Miss Rebecca, stop, please!" he called, as something he suspected of being highly intimate attire went sailing past him. "I cannot be helping you until you have calmed down." 

"Calmed down?" She stopped, thankfully, and stared at him with bright eyes. "Passepartout, there are five women in that hospital who have absolutely nothing to wear. _Nothing._ Oh, I suppose they'll provide them with some sort of smock, but surely I have more than enough to create a minimal wardrobe for them. For example," she pulled a crimson blouse with a deep velvet sash from the wardrobe and held it out for him to see, "I haven't worn this in ages - it went out of fashion six months ago at the very least. One of those poor women could wear it, surely." 

"You are not making consideration of the sizes." He lowered the hand from his eyes, seeing that her own hands were occupied with the blouse of which she was making an example. "And it is not being suitable." 

"Not suitable?" She waded through the clothing on the floor, kicking dresses out of her path as she stalked toward him. "But I found it most suitable. It's rather fetching with a velvet underdress, particularly with pearls." 

She was overwrought - Miss Rebecca knew perfectly what he was saying, but her brain was not hearing, sense crowded out by other thoughts. "For you it would be _most_ suitable, most beautiful," he agreed. "But for a housemaid? Miss Rebecca, you would be giving to these women clothing they would never be wearing. Better that we are going to a rag shop. Such beautiful clothes could be used to buy many maid's dresses and ladies' things." 

Miss Rebecca had reached him now. Catching hold of his hand, she pressed his fingers around the hook of the hanger, saying, "I shall need you to comb through Phileas' clothes - he must have dozens of trousers and waistcoats no longer in fashion. Size might very well be a problem for my things, but those footmen all seemed quite tall." 

There was to be no arguing with her, at least not until she had worn herself out. Resigned to this, Passepartout sighed and began to answer her when he heard Master Fogg's voice at the door. 

"Really, Rebecca, you might consult me before you send Passepartout clawing through my wardrobe." 

Passepartout had been looking in her eyes when the master spoke - the change frightened him. Her eyes had been fever bright from passion and action, but at Master Fogg's words they darkened. "What have you done?" she hissed, her anger so forceful that even Passepartout stepped back from her in alarm. "Damn you, what have you done?" 

She placed a hand in Passepartout's chest as he moved to intercept her, pushing him aside. His arms cartwheeled and he dropped the blouse she had handed him, while he tried to maintain his balance among the slippery silks and velvets and other soft things on the floor. He didn't fall, but was of no immediate help as Miss Rebecca launched herself at Master Fogg. 

Fear struck his heart when he saw her initial lunge, for Passepartout had seen the damage Miss Rebecca could inflict upon a foe when she was angry and Master Fogg's right arm was less than useless . . . but she did not fight as he expected. Miss Rebecca didn't kick, nor did she strike with the flat or side of her hand, but balled up her fists and struck Master Fogg in the chest and in the upper arms over and again. 

"How _dare_ you go to Sir Jonathan behind my back," she growled. "How dare you cut me out of this! You have no right to protect me - it's my job, damn you! Do you know how many lives might have been lost if you'd gone in there alone? Yours, for a start. And the eight - and the eight--" 

Passepartout had made his way toward her cautiously, seeing Master Fogg's mouth twist when she connected with his wounded arm. But Master Fogg gave her no sign of his hurt and, in fact, held up his hand in a halting manner toward Passepartout even as Miss Rebecca rained her blows down on him with each word. He stood his ground and took Miss Rebecca's assault upon his person without comment, until her voice began to break and her blows were no more than feeble taps against his chest. Only then did he catch hold of her wrists and draw her close, but still she fought to free herself and slapped the flat of her hands against his waistcoat. 

"You don't know," she said, the dying strength of her voice adding to the sound of heartbreak in it. "You didn't _see_. Damn you, you didn't see any of it. Any of it." 

He placed his arms around her, locking his hands in the small of her back and pulling her to his shoulder. "You'll tell me," he said. "You'll tell me all of it - but not now. Later. Much later." 

This was what Passepartout had known would come, even as he had seen her dry eyes and hard look in the lower regions of the Hellfire Club. He had suspected tears might be part of it, but her horror and hurt escaped her in long, dry sobs that wracked her body like terrible hiccups. It was as if Miss Rebecca had been a watch spring wound again and again and again until some part of her had broken free and loosed all of the heartache at once. Master Fogg held her against him and said in a soft voice, "Gently cousin, gently," even as she buried her face in his shoulder. 

Standing silent and forgotten, for that was all he could do without proving to be a distraction to either of them, Passepartout watched and yet did not watch. These were not the things that servants were supposed to see . . . and yet they were the things that friends shared. It was not until she sniffled and drew back from Master Fogg, running the edge of her hand across her eyes to wipe away fragments of tears, that Passepartout found himself remembered. 

"Oh, my," she announced, gazing at Passepartout with reddened eyes and an embarrassed smile, "I seem to have made a mess. Let me help you with--" 

Master Fogg still had hold of her left hand, which he squeezed in his. "I think that should be left until morning, don't you agree? Passepartout's had as much a night of this as the rest of us." 

"Yes. Yes, of course." She looked back at Master Fogg, then turned toward Passepartout again. "You were right - these things would be useless. And I _am_ sorry. But I wanted so much to give them something of _mine_. I thought . . . ." 

Passepartout smiled and nodded, accepting the apology and the unfinished explanation even as her words trailed off hopelessly. He was certain Miss Rebecca was not entirely aware of what had been in her mind when she had made the mess, nor even knew now quite what to think of it. "It will be fixed, Miss Rebecca. As Master Fogg says, tomorrow." 

"And tonight you'll sleep in my chambers," said Master Fogg, giving her a stern glance even as she turned to protest. "Ah, now there I must insist. One guest bedroom's already given over to Jules and the other's to be occupied by that footman, William. I shall be perfectly comfortable in the study - I doubt I shall sleep a wink tonight, at any rate." He raised his gaze to Passepartout. "Can that be arranged?" 

"As strikingly as the lightning, master." 

"One would hope with far less destruction," said Master Fogg, raising an eyebrow as if in warning. Then he turned a stern look to his cousin. "As long as it's to be understood that everything's to be returned to strict order. No throwing the contents of my wardrobe about the room? I should be very cross to find all of my trousers horribly creased." 

"I won't disturb a thing," Miss Rebecca promised. 

"Hmmn." Master Fogg didn't look at first as if the words had much worth to him, but as Passepartout drew closer, he saw a faint smile break through on his master's lips. Master Fogg touched his lips to his cousin's forehead, then rested his head against hers for a moment and looked into her eyes. "No dreams - not tonight. I've banned them from the house." 

"Good-night, Phileas," she said softly. 

Master Fogg stepped away from her, releasing her all at once as if it was not a thing that could be done safely in stages without some part of him remaining attached to her. He nodded toward Passepartout, saying, "Carry on," then left the room for the hall again. 

There were few words between them as Passepartout helped Miss Rebecca gather the necessities to her slumber. It was easier for him to hold the spare tray of her vanity as she loaded the less personal items upon it, the more intimate things she draped over her own arm. Settling her into Master Fogg's room took little time, for it was as precise and immaculate as usual. Passepartout knew enough this night not to ask if he should return to snuff out the candle by her bedside . . . he merely moved it further from the bed linen, knowing that it would be left to burn itself out well before dawn. He wished her goodnight and closed the door behind him. 

He could have traversed the townhouse from the basement to his own room in the attic in complete darkness and known exactly where he was every step of the way - but there were guests in the house tonight. He had paused, passing between the first floor and the second, to turn up the occasional gas lamp, but had made no real attempt to light the house properly for the hour was too late for such brightness. 

**** 

(Continued in part 18) 

**** 


	18. Chapter 18

**** 

Damnation and Hellfire - Chapter Fifteen (Continued) 

Passepartout paused in the doorway of the room that served as both study and drawing room for Master Fogg. The fire was burning well, but not too well, providing some heat and a little light. Jules was asleep on the sofa, still snuggled in blankets, with his hands clasped tightly around the empty cocoa cup, while Master Fogg was sitting in a chair by the decanter, a half-filled glass of claret in his left hand and his attention on the fire. 

Even though Passepartout made no sound, Master Fogg looked up suddenly and over at him, as if sensing his presence. He gestured toward Jules. "He's been asleep since I've been down here. Would have helped him up myself, but . . . ." 

There was a non-committal shrug and Master Fogg took another sip from his glass. Passepartout could well fill in the remainder of the statement - with the wound in his arm, such a thing would have been difficult and there was some chance, from what Passepartout had seen in the carriage, that the offer of assistance might have been rudely declined. He took the empty cup carefully from Jules' hand, noting that his fingers had warmed somewhat - that was a good sign - and although his hands had been washed of blood and glass splinters before they had left the Hellfire Club, they ought to be checked again in the morning. 

"Sent William up to the other guest room," added Master Fogg, as an afterthought. "Likable enough chap. He'd do well in the Queen's guard." 

"Yes, master." He looked down at Jules a moment and regretted that William was not there to help - he did not want to awaken his friend. But then Jules had had a longer day than any of them, having come by train and being worried all that time, and his sleep was deep. "I will take Jules up," he decided, then turned to look at Fogg. "And then I will properly be fixing the bandage on your arm." 

"Really, Passepartout, that's hardly necess--" 

Passepartout put a finger to his lips and nodded back to Jules with an expression of warning. "Sssh! Master, you will be waking Jules." Master Fogg fell to silence immediately, looking momentarily abashed before he returned to his drink with an annoyed expression. "And I will be maneuvering your bandage when I have returned." 

"Very well," said Master Fogg in defeat, after a moment's pause. 

Although Passepartout waited, there was no more argument - the lack of it explained by the weariness in Master Fogg's tone of voice, he supposed. He set aside the blankets and placed his arm and shoulder beneath Jules' arm, saying, "Come, Jules, is time for all good sleepy writers to be abed." 

Jules was not much trouble half-asleep, or at least not so much trouble as he could be when he was awake and would get stubborn about this or that thing. There were half-questions and some words as they stumbled up the stairs, but Passepartout simply repeated the word, "Tomorrow," over and again until it sank beneath the sleepy level of Jules' thoughts. 

Once in the guest room, which had become Jules' room over the months, Passepartout sat him down on the bed and knelt to remove his friend's boots. The sitting did not last long - Jules tumbled backwards after a few minutes with a faint snore - but the boots were off and there was nothing more to do than push Jules onto the bed and wrap the counterpane around him. Passepartout did not worry so much for Jules' clothes for they were from the club; there were other trousers, waistcoat, shirt, and drawers clean and pressed and waiting for tomorrow. 

He had expected to find Master Fogg asleep when he returned with the hot water, alcohol, and bandaging things, but although the fire had burned lower in the grate his master was still staring at it. There was no conversation between them as he moved between his master and the fire, setting the tray with the medical supplies and bowl of hot water on the desk. His master had to stand to remove his coat and waistcoat, each drawn carefully over his wounded arm by Passepartout. And if his master gasped and drew away once or twice in that process, Passepartout made no mention of it. 

It was when Master Fogg had been settled in the chair, his glass of claret refilled, that Passepartout set to changing the makeshift bandage he had placed on the wounded arm at the Hellfire Club. To have more light would have been better for him but disruptive to his master, so he made do, kneeling and shifting his position to use the firelight to full advantage. The cuts had not bled much more since that initial bandaging, which was a good sign. "I will be having the doctor checking these in the morning," muttered Passepartout, dabbing the cuts as gently as he could with cotton wool soaked in hot water to clean away the crusts of dried blood. 

"I'm sure your efforts will prove more than sufficient." 

Passepartout looked up in surprise - he hadn't expected an answer. And yet Master Fogg was still speaking, although he stared over Passepartout's head and into the fire. "I shall be traveling to Northampton tomorrow afternoon; I expect I'll return the following day. A single bag should be sufficient." 

There was a pause. Master Fogg returned to his drink. Continuing to clean the wound, Passepartout said, "I will be making the arrangements for our traveling tomorrow morning, master." 

"No, I think I would prefer you to accompany Rebecca tomorrow. She's got all that pent up energy to expel and she thinks enough of your advice to actually follow it - you may be able to temper some of her excessive notions. And . . . it would be best." 

A little perplexed and not a little hurt at the suggestion he abandon his master, Passepartout found the explanation logical, if hardly soothing. "But, master, you would be traveling alone?" 

"Contrary to prevailing opinion, it _is_ possible for one to survive twenty-fours hours without the presence of one's valet, I assure you." 

"Perhaps, master." Passepartout had begun to wrap the bandage around the arm now, and paused for a moment. "But it would be, as you have said, the difference between living and living good." 

His master chuckled, but that sound, like his words, was not as light as it was likely to be at other times. There was a long pause as Master Fogg took another sip of his claret. When he spoke, his voice came from a deep and ancient place. "I shall have to discuss this business with Rebecca, in time . . . damn me for giving my word on it." Passepartout had almost thought that his master had forgotten his presence when he added softly, "Was it _very_ bad, Passepartout?" 

"Master?" 

"What you saw in the Hellfire Club? In the lower chambers?" 

Passepartout rocked back on his heels for a moment, as much to ease the ache in his knees as to draw himself level with his master's gaze, which had settled upon him with an intensity he found unnerving. Or perhaps it was the question that bothered him - he could not be certain. "I do not like to think of it, master," he said honestly. He took a breath, and added, "But it is not a thing that will ever be forgotten." 

"My apologies, Passepartout," said Master Fogg, in a heartfelt tone. "I should never have placed you in a position to see such things." He turned his gaze away, looking into the fireplace. "Or Rebecca. I can't think that I shall ever be able to offer either of you suitable recompense." 

Passepartout went back to wrapping and fastening the bandage. "Is not being your fault, master. Is the doing of evil men." 

"You would not have been there, but for me." 

"We would not have been to rescue those peoples." Passepartout fastened the last of the bandage and wiped his hands on his trousers. "There is no way of knowing what was to happen to them. Eight of those people are being alive. I am not being sorry for that, master." 

"No," said Master Fogg, after a long pause. "No, I suppose not." 

The arm was well bandaged, or as well as he could manage. Content that he had done his best, he gathered the materials on the tray again. Passepartout covered the bloody bandages and bowl of dirty water with a cloth, so his master could not see. "It is done. Shall I prepare for you to be retiring?" 

"No. I don't think I shall sleep for some hours, if at all. If I've I mind, I'll use the sofa - the blankets should prove sufficient." Master Fogg looked up at him. "Go to bed, Passepartout. Rebecca will be up at first light." 

There was still something there in his master's eyes, but whether it was to deal with Miss Rebecca, or Jules, or otherwise, Passepartout could not decide. He nodded once. "I shall not leave the side of Miss Rebecca." 

"I would expect no less." His master gave him a weary smile. "Thank you, Passepartout." 

"Master." 

Such was the way of dismissals. He had returned the medical things to their proper places, rinsed and cleaned the bowl, then checked on each of his charges. Miss Rebecca was asleep with the candle by her bed still lit, Jules was a bump somewhere beneath the counterpane, and William could be found in a similar position in the other guest room. It had only been a matter of turning off the gas lamps as Passepartout made his way through the house and to his own room. But even then, as weary as he had been, he could not help but lie awake for a long time and stare at the ceiling. 

The morning had passed in a flurry of activity. William had been in service for a long enough time to be up at first light even while rubbing the sleep from his eyes. They had left his master sleeping on the couch in the study and closed the doors to that room, then prepared the range for the morning. Passepartout packed as he gave William instructions on setting out a cold breakfast for Master Fogg and Jules and what to do about the morning coffee. 

Miss Rebecca had arisen in an energetic mood and had set to work restoring the order in her room, refusing to allow Passepartout to help. By the time she was finished she had at least an armload of clean and appropriate clothing they could take to the hospital and Passepartout had discovered one or two items from Master Fogg's wardrobe that could be donated as well. The hamper had been packed with food, boxes of clothing were loaded onto the hired hack, and soon they had been waving farewell to William and on their way to the hospital. 

It did not seem at all odd to Passepartout that no one had discussed the events of the previous night, nor was the name of the Hellfire Club even once mentioned. 

When they arrived at St. Mary's, it was much as it ever was for him - unloading the boxes and the hamper, and then being Miss Rebecca's shadow as she flitted from place to place, trying to discover where their charges were located. Eight people could be easily lost within an institution the size of St. Mary's, but even the most officious staff could not completely hide the presence of the police. It was a glimpse of a navy blue uniform disappearing around a corner that finally led them to their destination. 

All the while Passepartout lugged the food hamper with a glad heart, for when he paused he could press his hand inside his coat and touch the stem of the yellow flower that rested there. They were led into an office, where a doctor arose from behind a sturdy desk, taking Miss Rebecca's hand immediately . . . but then paused at the sight of Passepartout and the hamper. Immediately, Passepartout cleared his throat and said, "I will be awaiting outside--" 

Miss Rebecca caught his arm and drew him into the room beside her. "Nonsense, Passepartout." She leaned toward him and whispered, "We have been through hell together - I shall not have us separated at the gates of paradise. Or purgatory, which I suppose is the more appropriate metaphor." 

The doctor and Miss Rebecca made each other's acquaintance, each being seated. Passepartout tried to find a way to sit with the hamper on his lap, but it proved too large for the arms of the chair. Finally, he set it on the floor beside him, and turned his attention to what was being said. 

"--Two should remain under care for the time," said the doctor. "We've received word the others shall be taken from our custody some time today." Miss Rebecca was watching the doctor with some concern, her expression softening only as he passed across a letter with a seal upon it. "This arrived for you this morning, I believe." 

Passepartout held his breath as Miss Rebecca slipped her fingernail through the seal and unfolded it. At first her expression revealed nothing of the sense of the words the letter contained, but then she nodded and turned a smile to Passepartout. "Sir Jonathan's arranged for the staff to be guarded at Sandringham until the case is developed and ready for presentation. Those healthy enough to travel will leave today under police escort." 

"Then there will be places for them all," said Passepartout in wonder. He looked up to meet her gaze. "This is a good thing that Sir Jonathan has done." 

"I suppose it was the law of averages - one had to happen eventually." Miss Rebecca smiled, but then assumed a serious demeanor as she turned her attention to the doctor again. "We've brought some food and suitable clothing they'll be able to use on the trip. I was wondering if we might tell them the news?" 

"If you'd like." The doctor again moved to his feet, pausing momentarily for Miss Rebecca as courtesy demanded, then opened the door of his office for them. "I'll have one of the staff direct you to them - we've the five who are to travel on the next floor. The other two are just down the hall." 

"Thank you, doctor," said Rebecca, taking his hand. 

But the numbers stuck in Passepartout's ears for a second longer. "That is being wrong," he informed the doctor. "Is two and five only seven. We have been bringing _eight_ peoples." He looked to Miss Rebecca to make certain he was not hearing the wrong thing and she met his eyes, nodding. "There are being _eight_." 

The doctor ignored him, addressing his words to Miss Rebecca. "I'm afraid one of the women didn't survive - her injuries were too severe. From the look of her, perhaps it was for the best." 

Passepartout was not aware that he'd made a sound as his hand had crept within his coat to touch the flower, only that Miss Rebecca looked at him with sad eyes. He didn't need to ask which one of them had died, but knew as he had known other things throughout his life. Perhaps that's why he'd been moved to pick the flower for her this morning. 

"Can you be telling us her name?" he heard himself ask. 

The doctor looked at him blankly. "I wouldn't know. We've asked the others, but they've no information. The two we're keeping for further attention are on morphine at the moment, I gather they were with her the longest." He turned his attention back to Miss Rebecca again. "I'd imagine you'll want the body removed to the coroner, if this death is part of your investigation. The list of injuries alone will prove disturbing testimony at the trial." 

Again Passepartout had made a sound, but this time turned his gaze away and stared at the wooden door to the doctor's office. There were more words he couldn't hear, the doctor left, then Miss Rebecca's hands were on his shoulders. "We've no choice but to send her to the coroner, Passepartout. But I promise you someone will hang for this. And we'll find her name - we shan't allow her to be buried in a pauper's grave beneath a blank stone." 

Passepartout shook his head and drew in his breath, not wanting to speak until he was certain the sorrow of it shouldn't overtake his words. "Last night, I tell Master Fogg that we have saved eight peoples. _Eight._ And now it is only seven. She has lived through that hell for how long and to see how many others die? We come too late for her." 

"And the other two," said Miss Rebecca softly. "We left two bodies behind in those cells. We won't forget them, either. I swear they'll have justice." 

He turned to face her, not caring that she might see the tears in his eyes. "Better that they had lived. What good is justice being to them now?" 

"We cannot raise the dead, Passepartout. Justice, and remembrance, is all we can give them." 

Her eyes were red - he had not meant to do this to her. And what should Master Fogg think, having sent him here to watch over Miss Rebecca and causing her to cry? He fumbled for the handkerchief in his waistcoat pocket and offered it to her. "We are having people to be feeding," he said, finding his voice steady again after the first few words. "The five who are traveling will need their clothes. I shall have the boxes brought up, yes? And make them lunches to be taking with - there is a baker along the next street, and a shop of cheeses and good things." 

Miss Rebecca had taken the handkerchief from him, dabbing gently at her own eyes as he spoke, then handed it back to him with a faint smile. "That sounds like a fine idea, Passepartout. Perhaps you should give me the hamper - my, that's heavy," she said, as he passed the handles to her, "--and take care of that immediately. I should think Sir Jonathan will want them removed from London as quickly as possible, before the press gets wind of the scandal." 

"Yes, Miss Rebecca." 

But before he could move past her, she reached out her left hand to touch his shoulder. "They'll have justice - I give you my word on that." 

He managed a smile - he did not know how and was certain he could have done it for no one but Miss Rebecca - then headed down the corridor to the stairs, where he could collect the clothing boxes. 

There was a window of colored glass at the stairwell, the morning light that shone through it dotting the steps with bright spots that were like wildflowers in a field. Passepartout stopped on the landing and withdrew the little yellow flowers from his coat. They were only a little flattened, but still delicate in their imperfection. He replaced them carefully inside his coat before he continued on to find the boxes. Tonight when everyone was asleep, he would carefully slip them between two sheets of paper in the Bible that rested beside the picture of Aunt Louisa on his bed table. 

Justice was beyond his capacity, or Miss Rebecca's, for only God would provide true justice for the little one, as well as the other two they had arrived too late to save. As for the other thing she had said . . . Passepartout knew it would not be such a hard thing for him to do to provide the remembrance. And he would be proud to do it. 

**** 

End of Chapter 15 

**** 


	19. Chapter 19

**** Damnation and Hellfire - Chapter Sixteen 

Standing in the center of the stairway, Jules placed one hand on the banister and the other over his mouth as he yawned. His eyes were still only half-open despite the fact that he'd all but dived into the water basin on the washstand upon crawling out of bed. His body was stiff and sore, his right arm ached from the saber duel, and his head pounded from either too little sleep or too much - he couldn't quite decide. It would have been easier simply to have crawled back under the bed coverings, drawn them over his head, and stayed there for a day or two. That he was fully dressed bore testimony to an effort of will and the compulsion to find out exactly what had happened last night and why it had happened that way. 

He needed to speak with Fogg. Now. 

Jules continued down the stairs and rounded the corner into the breakfast room almost without thought - it was part of the townhouse ritual. "Passepartout--?" 

Then he stopped, finding the table clear of all but decoration, and the room empty of people . . . except for a stranger. Who, as he looked closer, was not such a stranger after all. "William?" 

Out of the livery and wig and in a brown coat and tan waistcoat and trousers, William didn't look very much like the footman he'd befriended at the Hellfire Club and who'd brought him cocoa in the drawing room last night. Jules held out his hand, grinning-- 

But William turned to the sideboard. "'Morning, Mister Verne. There's coffee, if you'd like and Passepartout left some sweet rolls. It's near enough to luncheon, sir, if you'd prefer to wait?" 

Confounded, Jules let his hand fall to his side and took a step closer to William. "It's Jules, remember? We're friends." 

William's gaze was intent upon his task, pouring a cup of coffee from the silver service. "It wouldn't be proper, sir." 

"Proper?" Jules almost choked on the word. "That doesn't matter. Not to me." 

"That's what Passepartout said you'd say . . . sir." Turning, eyes lowered, William pushed the cup into Jules' hands. "But I've been thinking - it's not right. I'm downstairs, sir, and it's just not right." 

Jules placed one hand around the cup and latched the fingers of his other hand on the saucer to keep them from rattling. William had befriended him, joked with him, and given him damned good advice, as well as helped clean away the glass fragments that had clung to his hands last night - to ignore that because of some ludicrous class distinctions was absurd. He opened his mouth to tell William just that, but then William looked at him with a worried gaze and Jules hesitated, because he suddenly realized he had no idea what the rules were. Passepartout would know and could steer him away from something that might insult his friend . . . but Passepartout wasn't here. 

He swallowed the protest, some social sense he hadn't even known he'd begun to develop softly warning him to retreat, just a little bit. And he knew he'd been right to do so when William's worry seemed to dissipate. 

"Mister Fogg's in the drawing room - he asked if I might tell you he'd like a word, if you've a mind to speak with him. And . . . ." 

_Fogg_ would like a word? A sense of outrage tightened his chest momentarily. On the point of taking his leave from William as politely as he could and finding Fogg, Jules was suddenly aware that there was more behind William's words than the class distinction. "And?" he pressed. 

"This morning, Mister Fogg said he'd find me a situation in the Queen's household, if I'd like. Or he'd recommend me to the Guard." 

It sounded very much like Fogg, though probably not the way Fogg would phrase it. Jules smiled bitterly at William's confusion; trust Fogg to make the offer without first finding out what William's preference would be. "Would either of those appeal to you?" 

"Appeal? Don't they just!" declared William enthusiastically. But then his face fell. "But it's too generous, sir. Don't think I can accept Mister Fogg's offer." 

"Why not?" Now Jules truly _was_ baffled. "If it's what you want, why not accept?" 

"It would be unseemly. From what Mister Fogg said, by helping you last night I was helping her Majesty, but still . . . a half crown would have been more than sufficient. Even a letter to the Queen's household would be more than I'd dared to ask; Mister Fogg knows naught of my real character nor my service and it'd be wrong to ask him to pretend otherwise. And the Guard's beyond my means, sir. Oh, I've got a nest-egg of sorts, but not near what'd be liked for a commission." 

Again, Jules wished Passepartout had been present - the distinctions between upstairs and downstairs continued to elude him. He wondered if Fogg had any trouble keeping this nonsense straight. Then again, Fogg just did what he wanted and let everyone else deal with the consequences. 

That's when he realized he knew exactly how to answer William. "Well, it's Fogg you're talking about. He's been entrusted with Queen Victoria's security before." 

"Has he been?" asked William, somewhat awed. 

Jules nodded and leaned forward with what he hoped was a conspiratorial air. "It's part of what he does - he looks for people brave enough and loyal enough to entrust with her Majesty's safety. It's not that he's doing you a favor by putting you in the Queen's service, he's fulfilling his duty to her Majesty. He may not know much about you, but what he saw last night impressed him enough to make the offer." When William nodded his understanding, Jules smiled, knowing that he'd won. "Would you prefer to stay in service in the Queen's household or join the Guard?" 

"Oh, the Guard, sir," said William quickly. Then he licked his lips and lowered his eyes again. "Although it would be an honor to find a situation in her Majesty's household, the Guard's commission being under consideration and such. If he'd consider me trustworthy enough to merit a loan, sir, I'd pay him back from my wages." 

"The Guard, then," said Jules. "I'll inform Fogg of your decision." 

"If it's not too much trouble, sir, thank you." And then William looked up at Jules again, with a faint smile. "If I was in the Guard, we might be friends again." 

"Yes," Jules assured him, "we _will_ be friends again." He set the untouched cup of coffee down on the sideboard and asked, "Fogg's in the drawing room?" 

"Yes, sir." 

William's deference still unsettled him, but at least there was a way out of it now - and the sooner the better. "Thank you," said Jules, over his shoulder, heading out of the breakfast room and into the hall. That much was as settled as it would be - now it was time to get his answers. The door to the drawing room was closed. Jules knocked lightly, then opened the door and peered into the room. 

The drapes were open, letting in a considerable amount of daylight. Fogg was standing in front of the fireplace, partially silhouetted by the light. He turned his head and smiled, but also tucked something into his right hand pocket. 

"Ah - Verne. Did you sleep well?" 

Jules leaned his left shoulder on the door-jamb. "Yes, thank you." He was aware of Fogg watching him, although he was studying Fogg as intently, wondering about the wounds he'd received during the duel. "How's your arm?" 

Fogg shrugged and moved the arm slightly, as if to prove that he still could. "Bandaged expertly, as usual, by Passepartout." Turning back to gaze down at the fire, Fogg added, "William's got coffee on offer, if you're interested. It's not that bad." 

Involuntarily chuckling at the comment - which for Fogg was something akin to a backhanded compliment - Jules walked into the room and seated himself at a chair to Fogg's left, before the fire. "William said you were going to find him a situation in the Queen's household, or the Guards." 

"Yes. I do think the Guards rather a good idea - he's something of a scrapper. Unless he'd prefer to remain in service." 

"He asked me to tell you he'd prefer the Guards," said Jules. When Fogg glanced over at him, he added, "Unless the commission's a problem. The cost--?" 

"The Guards it is, then." The resolute nature of Fogg's tone indicated that the matter had been settled, further discourse was unnecessary. But Jules held his friend's gaze until Fogg was moved to raise an eyebrow. "Something further?" 

His hands were entirely steady as he removed the testament he'd received the night before from the waistcoat and held it out to Fogg. "This is yours." 

"Ah." Fogg stared down at his hand, but made no move to take the paper. "No, that belongs to you." 

Jules stared up at him in astonishment. "What am I supposed to do with it?" 

"Whatever you wish." Even as Jules unfolded the pages, he added, "It's perfectly legal, even if it is a substantial bequest. As it says, it makes you heir to all of my worldly possessions upon my demise." 

He'd not read the thing last night for the surface words, but for the code hidden underneath; Jules studied it and tried to make sense of the legal language - English law seemed to have as many peculiarities as did the nature of the nation's inhabitants. It was, as Fogg said, a will that named Jules Verne the sole recipient of nearly everything owned by Phileas Fogg. "Even if I kill you," he noted, a chill running through him at the realization. 

"Even then." 

He gazed up at Fogg and his friend looked away, leading him to a second realization - the document was also a sop, a salve meant to heal wounds in his pride left by the cutting remarks Fogg had made the night before. Perhaps it was even a ransom for his curiosity, an unspoken request not to press matters further. It was Fogg's ways of settling things, of drawing the situation to a tidy conclusion. William's payment for his courage and assistance the night before was a commission in the guards. God only knows what Fogg might have settled on Rebecca or Passepartout to compensate them for their part in the night's activities. For him, it was this. 

It wasn't enough. It wasn't what he wanted. 

Jules rose to his feet, walked to the fireplace, and drew back the screen enough to toss the two pieces of paper into the coals. The pages caught fire instantly, flaming up with a hiss and blackening into ash even as Jules folded his arms. "I'd prefer an explanation." 

Fogg's gaze was locked on the destruction of the document. "You should know, you were there," he said sharply. Then he fixed a hard-eyed gaze on Jules. "You shouldn't have been there, but you _were_ there." 

He refused to look away, denying the guilt that stung him at Fogg's words. "You needed help." 

"_I_ needed help?" Fogg snorted derisively. "You nearly succeeded in getting yourself killed. Or . . . worse." His right hand slipped slowly into his coat pocket and he withdrew a folded paper, which he held aloft. "This is what you nearly gave your life for." 

The paper wasn't handed to him - instead, Fogg unfolded it, then held it out for him to see. It was covered with a florid black scrawl, but at the very bottom was a brownish, blotted signature. Even though Jules couldn't discern distinct words from the page, he did guess at the ink used for the signature - blood - and a chill ran through him. "Your confession - from the book." 

"No, not mine." Fogg flipped the paper so that it was folded in half again, but continued to hold it in his right hand, staring at it. "Mine is still in the book. Chatsworth has it and much good it will do him; it's nothing more than a carefully constructed tissue of lies." 

He hadn't forgotten the 'sins' to which Fogg had signed his name in the secret chamber ceremony, or the circumstances that had all but convinced him the confession might be real. "It wasn't true, then?" asked Jules, feeling his heart beat more quickly. 

Fogg raised an eyebrow and glanced at him. "You sound almost disappointed." Even as Jules tried to sputter an apology, Fogg waved the paper at him dismissively. "A concoction of half-truths amplified by local rumor. I _did_ play cards with the gentleman and in a public setting he accused me of cheating - I had no choice but to defend my honor." 

"And the man's daughter?" asked Jules. 

His expression softening and a slight smile on his lips, Fogg looked down into the flames behind the screen. "Ah, yes - the woman." He sighed, then shook his head. "I hated to drag her name into this. She _did_ come to my rooms that night - her father was ill and the family hadn't the money to cover his losses. She offered her hand in marriage to discharge the debt. And if I wasn't interested in wedding her, she offered herself instead. Such a brave girl." He glanced over at Jules with a hard stare. "Of course, I refused." 

"Of course," agreed Jules automatically, fighting to keep the relief out of his voice. 

"I informed her the insult and the debt could be settled by an apology from the family - that would more than satisfy my honor. Before she left the hotel, her maid arrived with word that her father had succumbed to his illness. It was a beastly night and she was in no condition to travel, particularly not at that late hour. I offered her my rooms and spent the evening in the gentleman's lounge. The next morning I delivered her and my respects to the family and informed them the debt was no longer outstanding, having been settled with the man's untimely death. But there are always rumors about such things. Chatsworth was able to fan them into the appearance of reality with only a few well-placed words. And the denial of the family this many years later only made the affair seem more plausible." 

Fogg had turned back to stare into the flames again, his expression unreadable - however much Jules wished to leave his friend to his recollections in private, there was still more he wanted to know. "What about the daughter?" 

"She died in a train wreck near Birmingham last year." His friend's left fist clenched against his coat. "I found it distasteful to blacken the name of the dead, particularly of such a brave young woman . . . but I think she was the type who would not have minded if it were done in a good cause." He sighed and glanced back at Jules again, as if his words were meant to convince himself, as well as his friend. "Getting that book out of Whitmore's hands - that was the key. Chatsworth had tumbled onto Whitmore's blackmail scheme quite by accident - he was going to send Rebecca after the book when she returned from her latest mission. My intervention happened to be a matter of excellent timing." 

Jules drew in a quick breath and nearly choked, so that Fogg stared at him for a moment. "I'm sorry - you were working for Sir Jonathan?" 

"_With_ Sir Jonathan." He expelled his breath in a snort of annoyance. "That buffoon - he had no idea what he was about. I was to secure the book and keep the membership occupied until he arrived with the authorities. In exchange, Chatsworth was to embellish my 'sin' enough to prove me a perfect blackguard and refrain from involving Rebecca in the whole, sordid affair - she'd prove to be a complication I had no wish to address. That's why I warned you off so strongly last evening. Or, I _tried_," he amended. He shot a look at Jules. "You're well aware that I didn't mean any of it?" 

Making an effort not to reach up and rub the shoulder by which Fogg had pinned him to the wall last night, he met Fogg's gaze coldly. "Is that an apology?" 

"For that, yes." Fogg seemed distant suddenly, as if he'd viewed Jules' question as a demand. "But your presence at the club was your own fault - I'll be damned if I ever apologize for doing everything within my power to save your life." 

"If you'd told us from the start what you were doing, we wouldn't have had to follow you without your knowledge," countered Jules, unwilling to give up his anger that easily. "And from what I remember, it was _your_ hand holding that knife to my throat." 

**** 

(Continued in part 20) 

**** 


	20. Chapter 20

**** 

Damnation and Hellfire - Chapter Sixteen (continued) 

His self-righteous anger melted away when faced by the startled look Fogg gave him. "Good God," he whispered, "that's right - you have no idea what was involved." As if the thought had shaken him, Fogg placed the paper he'd been holding in his coat pocket again and walked over to the decanter. He turned over two glasses and began to pour. "At first, I'd taken the Hellfire Club on face value - it was a den of vice, where libertines could enjoy their debauchery with a certain amount of discretion and among members of their own class." 

A glass of claret was poured - Jules realized that he was watching Fogg's hands as if expecting them to shake, but he wasn't certain why. As the second glass was poured and he understood it was for him, he said quickly, "No, thank you - I haven't had breakfast yet. It's not even noon." 

"It's just past," said Fogg, continuing to pour the wine, "and you'll be glad of it." 

There was no graceful way to avoid accepting the glass Fogg handed him. With a grimace, Jules took it back to the chair by the fireplace and seated himself, but Fogg remained standing by the decanter, as if needing to be reassured that a potential refill was close at hand. 

"It's a wonder I didn't suspect it sooner - it should have made sense," said Fogg absently, holding up his glass to the light, as if intrigued by the color. "When a member is accepted into the inner circle of the Hellfire Club, he must produce an adequate 'sin,' as you heard, but he's also told the club will provide him with his heart's desire - whatever is asked, the club is obliged to deliver. Nothing is too obscene, too bizarre, too abhorrent." He lowered the glass and took a sip, gazing into the distance. "I did warn Whitmore they'd never be able to fulfill my request. I understand now why he had the confidence enough to disbelieve me." 

Before Jules could inquire further, Fogg sat down in the chair across from him and fixed him with a steady gaze. "Rebecca and Passepartout discovered a chamber in the basement - I believe she initially said something about it having been decorated in the style of Torquemada, and that she suspected it had been used recently. That was one of 'amenities' offered by the Hellfire Club - selected staff were abused, tortured and murdered at the whim of 'privileged' members." 

Jules could recall quite clearly the look in Whitmore's eyes as the baron had tried to talk Fogg out of the duel and the threat lurking in the man's gaze that had so unnerved him. He brought his other hand to bear on the glass, afraid it might shake as he lifted it to his lips, not daring to do more than sip, but needing the strong drink to distract him. Only then did he whisper, "That's why you set up the duel." 

He looked up to see Phileas raise his glass as if to confirm the statement, but his friend didn't drink. "Chatsworth was supposed to raid the place at midnight; I had to put on a show until then. There was no choice but to make you part of it - Rebecca had warned me, thank God. I think Whitmore saw you as something of a challenge, perhaps a way to impress me? In any case, I couldn't take the risk." 

The claret burned all the way down Jules' throat and yet he took another sip; Fogg was cradling his glass in his hands, not drinking, just staring down into it. "You _still_ took a risk . . . with the duel," he accused. "I could have killed you." 

"But you didn't." Smiling, Fogg gestured with his glass toward the fireplace. "_That_ was brilliant. I was wracking my brain trying to come up with some way to let you know what was happening without tipping off Whitmore and having us both hauled away in chains. I would never have thought to ask for the terms to be set in writing." 

Jules shifted in his chair, uneasy at receiving Fogg's praise. "It was meant to be an insult." 

"I know. It's the most fortuitous insult I've ever received." Fogg arose from the chair and walked to the fireplace, then leaned his hand with the glass on the mantle. "Passepartout and Rebecca should return shortly - they rescued the poor devils who'd been held captive and I gather they wanted to look after them this morning. You might ask them for more details, if they're needed." With his left hand, he took his watch from his waistcoat and checked it. "I should be going soon - my train leaves at two." 

"You're going somewhere?" 

"Yes." Fogg seemed to study Jules for a moment, then set his glass on the mantelpiece. He withdrew the paper he'd shown earlier from his pocket, but didn't unfold it. "Revenge on behalf of the old is driven by duty," he said quietly. "On behalf of the young, it's driven by guilt." He glanced over at Jules with a smile devoid of amusement. "He came to ask my advice. He wanted my help. And I told him - _I_ told him - to discuss the matter with his _father_." 

His initial thought was that the claret Fogg was drinking was not his first of the day - his friend wasn't making any sense. But then he considered the paper in Fogg's hand, and what Passepartout had said on the way to the club about Fogg's visitors in the past week. "Your godson," he concluded. "Denby, wasn't it?" 

Fogg started, his bleak expression giving way to one of surprise, and then contained fury, but Jules set his glass aside and rose to his feet to confront his friend. "Passepartout had mentioned something about him having come here to see you," he explained, as Fogg looked away from him. "I didn't make the connection at the time. Neither did Rebecca. But now I think - it's your godson, isn't it?" 

He was half-afraid that Fogg would turn and strike him - his friend had that look about him - and Jules stood his ground despite the instinct warning him to take a step back. As it turned out, there was no need; Fogg stalked toward the decanter, for he was blocked in by a chair and was left only that one avenue of retreat. Facing away from Jules, he shook his head. "It's damned nerve-wracking when you do that, Verne. You could at least give one _some_ sort of warning . . . ." 

"I'm sorry," said Jules, not entirely certain what he'd done. "But I'm right, aren't I?" 

"Yes. Arthur. He was a good chap - very earnest. No sins to speak of, other than not being much of a rider. He was just out of university, you know, very eager to start . . . something. I assume one of his friends stood him to a membership to the club." Fogg took a deep breath, then half turned, gesturing toward Jules with the paper. "He said there'd been a girl and that it had gotten out of hand. I'd assumed it was a youthful indiscretion at the worst - God knows I had my own share of them. He was worried about a scandal. I told him to speak to his father. He left before we could talk further." Fogg looked to the wall and touched the paper to his lips, as if it could absorb his words. "I finally found him in his rooms at the Athenaeum - he'd hanged himself. He couldn't have done it more than an hour after we'd last spoken." 

At first Jules couldn't find the words - his heart ached for his friend and yet there was nothing he could think to say except, "I'm sorry." The sentiment sounded shallow and ineffectual. 

Fogg turned toward him, a wry smile on his lips. "Arthur left a note that said just those two words. But I don't think it was the thought of scandal that drove him to it; I think Arthur couldn't live with what he'd seen, what he'd done, or he'd thought he'd done. He wasn't the type." 

"What _did_ he do?" asked Jules, very softly. 

The question was automatic - the moment the words left him, he wished he could recall them, especially after Fogg shot him a sharp look. But then Fogg turned his gaze down to the folded paper in his hands. 

"The only clue I had was that he'd been to the Hellfire Club. Chatsworth told me about the blackmail scheme and this 'book'- Lord Denby doesn't have a considerable fortune, but he's a man of influence, particularly in the House of Lords. If I got back the book, I could save Arthur's family from scandal and find out why . . . ." Fogg dropped his hand to his side. "I can't bring myself to read it. I know - knew - Arthur. He could never have willingly hurt another human being. Whitmore saw the blackmail advantage in having him in the inner circle, so he created a sin for him. He might have been drunk or drugged or God knows what . . . the signature is far from steady, so that's something. What's written here would have been dictated by Whitmore to put his involvement in the worst possible light and any of the others who might have been there, they'd now say whatever they thought would save their skins, damn them. So there's no point to reading it, really. I'll never know precisely what happened . . . and if I could have helped him." 

The last was said weakly, almost apologetically. Phileas Fogg was not the most approachable of men in any circumstance - this was the most heart-felt speech Jules had ever heard his friend utter . . . and it had been delivered to a wall. There were tears in his own eyes at the horror of it and the uncertainty - he didn't know if he'd be able to bring himself to read the damning evidence that paper presented, however untrustworthy it might be. 

"My reservation is for the two o'clock train," said Fogg, turning toward Jules. "What do I tell his father?" 

It was not a rhetorical question - Fogg was asking his advice. Jules gestured toward the paper. "You could give him that." 

"I've considered it." Fogg walked towards him, but paused at the fireplace. He leaned his hand on the mantelpiece and dropped his forehead upon it, as if weary beyond measure. "I've spent the night considering it. I tried to imagine his situation, if it had been my son. My . . . brother. Or . . . ." Fogg raised his head and fixed Jules with an intense gaze. "No," he said, very softly. "I wouldn't want to know." 

Jules seated himself and looked down at the carpet, as much to shake off Fogg's unnerving stare as that unspoken assessment. "Does Lord Denby know how his son died?" 

"He doesn't even know that Arthur's dead." Fogg chuckled bitterly. "This must be my lot in life - to tell fathers that their sons are dead. I can't seem to escape it." 

Jules tried to sort out the thoughts in his head as he stared at the carpet pattern, fighting to ignore the desperation in Fogg's voice - it was a distraction. "Perhaps . . . ." 

"What?" 

"Does it matter _when_ Arthur died?" 

"I don't suppose so," answered Fogg, obviously keeping his curiosity in check. "Chatsworth's managed to keep the matter quiet, for the family's sake. I assumed we'd take him home after this was all over, to be interred in the family crypt." 

It was the final parameter, the thing that might make it work. If Fogg could think of him in terms of Arthur, perhaps he could think of himself in those same terms. In the pattern of the carpet Jules felt the tug of the wind, the sting of the cuts on his fingers from the glass fragments, the churn of his stomach as he began to pitch headlong over the roof . . . and imagined someone not having Rebecca there to save him with a well-thrown rope. "At the club last night, what if he'd been working for the Service? What if Arthur had been the one to face Whitmore and to find the book and you hadn't been there to save him? What if he and Whitmore had gone over the wall together? Sir Jonathan could--" 

"Sir Jonathan could replace your name with Arthur's name in the reports. There'd be a letter of condolence from her Majesty. He would have died a hero, in the service of his country." He met Jules' gaze. "But that means the part you played in this would be officially forgotten." 

"That's fine with me - I'd like to forget last night ever happened." 

"Perhaps it would be better for all concerned if we did just that." Fogg met his glance for a moment, then looked away. "Chatsworth will be more than happy to accommodate us in this; I know he'd like to overlook my participation in this mission entirely - my name will certainly be absent from the records. Arthur will have died a hero - which won't ease his father's heart, but will keep the taint of scandal from the family name at the very least." 

"It still leaves that." Jules pointed toward the folded paper in Fogg's hand. 

"Yes. It does." After a moment's pause, Fogg tossed the paper past the fire screen and into the flames. The paper burned as quickly as had the ones Jules had thrown in earlier. "So should all memory of our mortal sins be consumed." 

Jules clasped his hands together and stared down at his interlaced fingers, only faintly recognizing the crackle and pop of the last fragments of the page as it was reduced to ashes. There wasn't anything to say, nothing that could comfort his friend, particularly not with this onerous duty still awaiting him. Telling a father that a child had died was an experience Jules had never encountered . . . and hoped never to find in his future. Fogg had gone through it at least once - his brother, of course, and possibly others before he had left the Service. It was not the sort of act one learned to perform better by repetition. 

A snap caught his attention - he looked up to see Fogg replacing his watch in his waistcoat. "I must be off," said Fogg, nodding once as if in farewell before heading for the door. 

Jules rose to his feet immediately. "Would you like me to go with you? Or, at the very least, I could wait with you at the station?" 

Fogg stopped almost in mid-stride, as if the words had struck him like a blow. "You sound like Passepartout. I _can_ be trusted to board the correct train, I assure you." The words were light, pronounced with an air of flippancy. But then Fogg turned and regarded him thoughtfully, as if giving the idea serious consideration. "As much as I think Lord Denby would delight in making your acquaintance, perhaps this is not quite the right time." 

"No. Of course not." Abashed, Jules seated himself again. Fogg was right - he hadn't thought that through. That wouldn't prevent him from waiting with his friend at the station, but perhaps Fogg didn't appreciate his presence either, right now. He'd no wish to prove a further surrogate for Arthur Denby's memory, beyond providing an honorable explanation of his death. 

"I should be returning tomorrow evening. If you happen to be free . . . would you consider dining with me at the Reform Club?" 

Jules looked up the instant the offer was made; the memory of Fogg's words to him the previous evening still stung and he was very much afraid he was being mocked. But there wasn't any hint of sarcasm in Fogg's expression. Indeed, there was something tentative in it, as if he'd made the request with the expectation that it would be refused. 

"Surely that would be 'the limit'?" asked Jules, in a carefully even tone . . . but he couldn't fight back a teasing grin. 

Fogg placed a hand on his hip and half-turned away for a moment as if in exasperation, before turning back again. "I don't suppose I'm going to be allowed to forget that anytime soon?" 

He didn't answer at first, merely giving his friend a shrug. But then Jules sobered. "I'd be honored to accept your invitation." 

"And I'd be glad for the company." 

It was as if the offer had settled something outstanding between them. Still, Jules rose to his feet, knowing that he had one more question left to ask . . . and that he might have no real right to ask it. 

Fogg was on his guard immediately as Jules rose, his hand falling from his hip, his shoulders straightening. "Verne?" 

"You said the Hellfire Club offered you anything you wanted. You asked for the duel because . . . ." And he let that fall away, still not wanting to acknowledge the cold chill that ran down his spine when he considered the possibility that he might have been found in the ceremony chamber when Fogg hadn't been present. Fogg might never have known he was there. Anything might have happened. 

Anything. 

Jules cleared his throat and shook off his dark thoughts. "What would you have asked, what _could_ you have asked that Whitmore and the club couldn't provide?" 

He expected a flippant reply, if there was any answer at all. Fogg seemed to be considering just that, the beginning of a rakish smile on his lips. But the smile grew softer after a moment, as if he'd changed his mind, and he turned his back on Jules, walking to the door. 

Accepting there was to be no answer, Jules returned to the chair by the fire. The words were spoken in so quiet a tone that he thought he'd imagined them. 

"Peace of mind." 

Jules began to rise from his chair, but by then the door was closing, Fogg on the other side of it. He fell back and stared at the door, uncertain whether to follow. Surely not? What Fogg had said, was it a jest, something to throw him off? And yet there had been something in the words . . . . 

Only vaguely did he realize that he'd picked up the glass of claret. He sipped at the wine and found the glow numbing as it spread slowly through his limbs. Jules leaned forward, the glass held between his hands, and stared at the flames in the fireplace, contemplating the inherent contradiction in a man who longed for personal peace of mind, yet who voluntarily continued to brave damnation and hellfire for the sake of others. 

**** 

The End 

**** 

Not the darkest story I've ever written, to be sure, but I suppose it certainly earns a place on that list. My thanks to Lona, who took on the onerous and thankless job of trying to keep me honest (and to prevent the vowels from wobbling and forming other words, as mine are likely to do from time to time), even as she was writing her own fanfic (and doing a perfectly lovely job of it, too!). As I get older details slip by me more easily and Lona was kind enough to remind me of what I'd forgotten without making me feel like a dunderhead. She also forced me to produce a tighter and more finely-crafted story, called me out when I was too lazy or wimpish to put in what should be there, and would not let me wallow in verbal self-indulgence . . . well, not TOO much. 

Gerty is most appreciated for making sure the sword fight was correct in the particulars and in general. One can only do so much research on one's own before one becomes damned fool enough to consider oneself an expert, particularly when a true expert is at hand to offer guidance. Thank you most kindly, Gerty. 

My apologies to Vita and DV, who have been on hold with the other story (yes, yes, that's next) and have not been nagging me to produce more parts for them to beta. This is also the first time that someone's written poetry about a WIP of mine, which was something of note (and very much touched my heart). 

This was a bit larger than I thought it would be. Whitmore doesn't have sufficient character to satisfy me, but I was exploring a few more viewpoints than I normally do (You mean I used more than TWO viewpoints on this story? The dickens, you say!) and the strain was telling. The joy of fan fiction is being able to take sufficient liberties with the format - so this could have been pared down to an adventure story to fit the series format, I suppose, but I'd wanted to do it right. Please forgive me if it lingered too long upon or passed over the bounds of taste. 

Remind me NEVER to separate Rebecca from her tools ever again. I mean it. Lord, that drove me mad. 

And for those who have asked: 

* A majority of the members of the Hellfire Club and the staff of the club were unaware of the evils occurring beneath their feet. Testimony given by those poor souls abused by the club resulted in the conviction and hanging of the club's head steward and two other staff, while several other people in service were given prison sentences and fines depending on their offenses. 

* Of the remaining eleven members of the Inner Circle, no formal charges were made public. Two of the men took their own lives, a third is presumed dead after his pleasure craft was found abandoned and adrift off the coast of Scotland. In the time since the actions of this story have taken place, six more members of the Inner Circle have 'passed beyond this mortal coil,' their demises due to everything from accident and illness, to circumstances so bizarre as to only be described as 'mysteriously violent.' The less respectable papers of London have pronounced them victims of a 'curse' associated with the former popular men's club. 

* The 'Book of Sin' was found to contain the confessed misdeeds of no less than two hundred and seventeen notables, a number of whom were peers of the realm or titled aristocrats from areas beyond English borders. Each one was discretely contacted by her Majesty's Secret Service. Common thought is that the book was too incendiary to be allowed to exist and was destroyed quite soon after the events listed above. It is said within certain sectors of the Service that if one stands on a summer evening at a late hour in the street below the windows of the residence of Sir Jonathan Chatsworth, one is likely to overhear particularly indelicate passages read aloud with apparent relish. 

* The un-named 'survivors' of the 'Hell-Club" (so named by the daily tabloids) generally disappeared from public view after the end of the infamous trials, as is the common case with such things. One of the former maids became quite well known in the London music hall circuit as a dancer, another was said to have booked passage to the United States, while at least one maid and one footman returned to Sandringham and were accepted into the service of Her Majesty's household. Nothing is known of the fate of the remaining maid and footman. 

* William ended up in the Guards and looked very spiffy in his uniform. 

* Rupert joined the police and walked a Soho beat. 

* A certain Ellen Louise Morris was buried in a small churchyard near Saint Mary's hospital and never lacks for a sprig of yellow flowers on her grave, no matter what the season. 

Thank you for reading. 


End file.
